Rescue Me
by Phoenix II
Summary: Kyle needs someone to save him: from the world, from his enemies, from himself. Kyle needs someone to rescue him. SLASH, StanKyle, minor StanWendy.
1. Chapter 1

Rescue Me

**Disclaimer: **I don't own South Park!

**Summary: **Kyle needs someone to save him: from the world, from his enemies, from himself. Kyle needs someone to rescue him.

**Author's Notes:** Welcome to my new project! It's called Rescue Me, and will feature emo!Kyle and confusedhetero!Stan. I also just thought up a really strange oneshot while listening to Weird Al Yankovic, so…look for that sometime.

I'm realizing that writing helps me de-stress, so the angst in some situations might be amplified, unless I'm uploading it on a Friday or Saturday…I don't have anything to do that would stress me out those days.

Without further ado, here's the first Chapter. It's mostly Kyle's POV

-.-

I think it's safe to conclude that I am well and thoroughly fucked. Ever since we all got to High School, things just got worse for me. Everyone got dumber, apparently. Wendy and I were the only ones who didn't dumb ourselves down to be popular. I got constantly harassed for my intellect, participation in classes, and general dress style. I couldn't help it! My stupid mother continued to insist on buying me clothes, thus, I was stuck wearing sweater vests, blue collared shirts, khaki pants, typical nerd gear. The only thing I lacked, thank Jehovah, was a set of braces.

My problems, though, my problems didn't really surface until I turned 16. Not two days after my birthday (although I only suspect it was because he was on vacation), my arch-nemesis (at least, as close as couple of teenagers can be considered in this fashion) Eric Cartman turned up in my room with a knife. Two hours later (Fatass had picked a time when my family was out) I was on my way to the hospital, missing half of my blood from three precisely-shaped cuts on my pectorals and abdomen. They were in the shape of swastikas, and were a good half an inch deep. He'd known that that even if I didn't bleed to death, I would be branded for life as what I really was, a "goddamn, no-good, useless, fucking Jew."

I had talked to the police when they arrived two days after I was admitted to the hospital. I showed them my wounds and allowed them to take pictures, and was more than happy to tell them who had done it to me. I'd had to testify at his trial, but that was no biggie. My father and mother had helped pressure the Park County DA into having Cartman tried as an adult, and also adding a hate crime charge to the previous indictment of attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, and use of a deadly weapon in the act of committing a felony, and we had all the evidence on our side. I was the last person the prosecution called, and as the DA wound up her questioning, I saw Cartman slide a piece of paper over to his lawyer, who accepted it and nodded without question.

"Your witness, Counselor," the DA said, returning my attention to what I was doing and why. Cartman's lawyer got up and walked over to me.

"Mr. Broflovski, could you remind the court what religion you practice?" he asked. Cartman was up to something.

"I'm a Jew," I replied.

"And…that means you don't believe in Jesus, correct?" he asked. Damn it! I instantly knew what Fatass was planning. He was going to use my answer to this question to allow his lawyer to convince the jury that since I didn't believe in Jesus, I was a terrible person, and Cartman was simply performing his Christian duty to educate people about Jesus. I looked to the prosecutor for an objection to the question, but she just shrugged. I was on my own.

"Mr. Broflovski?" the lawyer prompted. "Do you or do you not believe in Jesus Christ?"

"Of course I believe in him," I replied. "Hell, I've met him at least a half-dozen times. Do I accept him as my Savior and the son of my Lord? No. Jesus was a very special person, yes, but I'm not convinced of his divinity."

"Have you ever assaulted my client, Mr. Cartman?" the lawyer then asked. This time the DA did leap up.

"Objection! Your Honor, Mr. Broflovski is not on trial here!" she cried.

"It provides insight into my client's rationale, Your Honor," Cartman's lawyer replied.

"I'll allow it," the judge said. "Answer the question, son," he told me kindly. Sighing, I geared myself up.

"Yes, I have. Nothing ever any more serious than breaking his nose, sir, but technically speaking, yes I have assaulted your client," I said. The lawyer had a smug look on his face.

"May I ask why?" he asked.

"Certainly," I said. "You're cross-examining me, probing me for something you can attempt to use to justify your client's behavior. If you must know, as you should have heard by now, Mr. Cartman's anti-Semitic behavior goes back at least seven years. Ever since we were in third grade, he's occasionally gone out of his way to make me aware of the fact that I am a-pardon my language-fucking Jew-rat. He goes out of his way to hurt people. He's tried to bring about a Nazi state in Park County at least three times. He's already been convicted once of a hate crime. If you want a full list, settle in. If I told you everything he's ever done, you'd wanna break his nose too, I don't care how much he's paying you."

That did it. Consulting his list, he shook his head.

"No further questions."

"Witness may be excused," the judge said, and the bailiff helped me down from the stand.

Well, of course Cartman was found guilty on all counts. He was in some state prison somewhere on the other side of Colorado. I could only hope that they'd stuck him on a kosher diet and that he was being ass-raped every fucking day.

I apparently became a target for all the terrible things and shit that happens to people who aren't Kenny in South Park then. Every year, something bad happened. When I was sixteen, Cartman tried to murder me. The year after that, my girlfriend of eleven months, Rebecca Cutswald, committed suicide.

It wasn't pretty. Her mother found the body, dressed for her own funeral with a needle that was apparently filled with some drug, heroin or something. Couldn't be much else. I never got to see the toxicology, but the suicide note was an interesting read. In it, Rebecca implored me not to hold myself responsible. I wasn't to blame, according to her, my actions were. I was quite confused. I had never done anything untoward against Rebecca, nor any member of her family. I hated Mark for abandoning his potential (the kid wasn't as fucking dumb as he acted), but I'd never told him so.

That didn't really matter. I spent six weeks wondering what she'd meant by that before I was handed some very interesting explanatory material. In Rebecca's diary, she detailed at length her plans to seduce me and get me to take her virginity before she turned eighteen. The doctor said her time of death was barely thirty seconds after her time of birth. She'd failed her objectives, because I was too big of a fucking prude to just give her what all my friends told me she wanted. I wanted it to be "special," to have "meaning." Well, no, I didn't want it like that. I was a teenage boy, who the fuck are we kidding? I wanted it any way I could get it, but my Mom wanted it to be "special," and have "meaning." I swear to Jehovah, that woman would stand in my bedroom reading from the Kama Sutra every time I had sex if she possibly could, deriding my technique and correcting my procedure.

The craziness of it all led to my own suicide attempt. Let's review my life and see if we can find the reason why, shall we? Let's see…I grew up with a boy who constantly expressed his utter loathing for me, wanting nothing more than a painful death for me, something he almost got two years ago. I hooked up with a crazy girl whose inability to express her desires in a perceptible fashion to me made her KILL herself, for Christ's sake! There's my bitch of a mother, who insists that I do all my schoolwork immediately when it's assigned, controlled every aspect of my life until the day I left for college, to the point where the woman insisted on shopping for my college wardrobe. That's enough of a reason, don't you think? I COULDN'T have a life! If I had a life, I might start doing things that Sheila Broflovski didn't like. God forbid she should have a child that even has a CHANCE to put one toe out of line! The crazy part is, she puts all this pressure on me, but Ike is the most ridiculously out of line with her values that anyone has ever been allowed to. Into "scene" style, loud emo music, weird hairstyles, if it's not mainstream, Ike's into it. Isn't my family fucked up?

So yeah, I tried to kill myself in late May, right after graduation and my eighteenth birthday. Looked up ways to do it on the Internet, wrote a nice, long, enlightening note, and went to do it, to get the fuck out of my hell of a life. I'd just gotten positioned with the knife when a voice came from behind me.

"Put the knife down, Kyle." The one person who could get to me, who'd helped me countless times without ever accepting recompense. If I had a problem, he had a solution. When Cartman tried to kill me, he was the one who'd called 911, ridden with me to the hospital, stayed with me, and encouraged me to talk to the police. He was the one who'd convinced me to testify, and had taken the day off from school with me when I was in court for that purpose. He'd been my rock after Rebecca's death. I spent that night, and several nights thereafter, crying into his shoulder. I think I ruined at least two of his shirts. Now, here he was again, trying to keep me here. Cursing my luck, I answered him, keeping the knife exactly where it was.

"Why should I, huh? At least in Hell, I can get a tan, and I can do shit without the bitch lecturing me for hours on end about how it's going to ruin my future. Tell me why the fuck I should put the knife down, Stan," I said. I heard him sigh, walk over to me and pluck the knife from my grasp.

"Because I said so, Kyle. There's no way I'd let you get away with it, you know," he said, steering me back to my room and sitting me on my bed. "I'd kill Kenny every day just so he could talk to you and tell you how pissed off I was at you. You may think I'm the only thing that keeps you going, but you help me too, dude." Stan had pulled up a chair and was sitting in it backwards, resting his chin on the chair back.

"Now, aside from your mother, do you have any other reason to kill yourself, waste yourself like that?" he asked. I began to explain about how my life had been a living hell for the past two years, but Stan cut me off.

"Don't give me that, dude," he said. "It's been hard on us, too. We were in high school, Kyle! We're not supposed to have to have classmates on trial for hate-related attempted murder, or have to go to a classmate's funeral because that classmate killed herself. It happened to us too, you just were closer to them than most of the rest of us."

That was Stan for you. Always there to help a friend. Very loyal, Stan. Ever since we met in preschool, we were friends. We were friends in elementary, through middle and high school, pretty much up until the day we arrived at college.

We weren't rooming together. Stan and I had come to the conclusion that the counselors were probably right, that rooming together might not be the best thing to do, especially given the difference in our majors. He was majoring in exercise science, I was majoring in…well, officially anyway…business, just like my parents-meaning my mother-wanted. I had his cell number, and permission to call him any time I needed to talk. Nodding, I programmed it in and went back to unpacking.

I haven't talked to him since. I've seen him a few times around campus, at football games, in the cafeteria, but I haven't talked to him since August. He probably doesn't recognize me. I threw out all those clothes my mom bought for me to wear, and her ideas for my major and my future, and gave in to what I'd been feeling ever since that morning I woke up to Eric Cartman holding a knife in my room.

My wardrobe is a lot less bright. The orange jackets of my youth are gone, as are the sweater vests and blue button-downs of my high school years. I've even tossed out the ushanka, let my hair do what it will. Fuck it, I don't care anymore. All my clothes are black, and baggy for the most part. I've got a few band tees, and I suppose that, if Ike were to see me, would call me an emo myself.

To be fair, that's a pretty accurate description. Of course, I can't really pull off the hairstyle with the Jewfro and all, but it DOES now have streaks, black amidst the red curls. I occasionally glace at myself in the mirror and am disgusted with myself. I don't know how or why I've sunk to this level, but all I know is that it's not something I can leave. It makes me feel…well, not happy, that's not the purpose…a little less shitty I guess. I've got a series of small scars where I pricked myself-not cut, that's a little too hardcore, and brings back bad memories-and just let myself bleed. I usually do this in the shower, where if someone notices the blood running into the drain, I can blame a busted scab. They can't see me, they don't know that I'm lying.

Oh, and that whole shit about majoring in Business? Total lie. I'm an Art and Philosophy major. Along with all the emo bands, I've discovered a passion for art, and a small adeptness for painting. Not good art, like the kinds that win prizes and get in museums, dark art. Blood and gore, what I envision hell to be like. Minus Gay Satan and Saddam Hussein, and what everything Kenny says is there. I leave all that out, and go to what Hell SHOULD be. Walls of fire, tortured souls, little demonic minions flittering about and inflicting cruelty out of spite. It gets me passing grades, what do I give a shit?

I'm also going to let you in on another little secret, another problem I'm having. This is a problem that Stan could NEVER help me with, because it's all his fucking fault. I, Kyle Broflovski, am gay. I'll also give you three guesses about who I'm crushing on. That's right. I'm gay, and I have a terrible crush on the only person who I've ever felt comfortable talking about my problems.

So, I ask you this final question: What the hell am I supposed to do?

-.-

**Author's Note:** Ok, that's the first chapter. Depending on how bored I get over the weekend, you can expect this to be a weekly-ish update fic. Every 4-7 days. Thanks, and don't forget to leave a review!


	2. Chapter 2

Rescue Me-Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not mine**

**Summary: Chapter 2. Not talking to Stan has had consequences for Kyle. See what they are.**

**Author's Notes: **I am enthused, but also depressed and angry…stupid Bears…I can see what Stephen Colbert has against them. Anywho, this chapter is five years from the last one.

Reviews:

Lumina Lin: M'kay, then…tell me later! Here's chapter two!

Flabz: Hey! Yes…the overall plan is to get people feeling sorry for Kyle so that I can piss them all off in later chapters…probably starting now!

PP. Bunny: Well, Stan is quite obviously the magic cure, but Kyle's going to try a couple other things first…read to find out!

Ren85: Take two Tylenol and write me in the morning, lol! One of those days, eh? Yep, it's definitely had an effect on Kyle. Poor kid can't catch a break.

Cjmarie: Everyone loves that line…it's a lot easier to write emo when you've got emo on your mind…something I do a good portion of the time a lot now. Amazingly, I don't consider myself one. About 1/3, but not really an emo…I don't like the clothes…

Style-xx: For seriouslah? Art? For moi? I'd love you! God forbid I should disappoint. Perhaps creep out a little, but…eee!

ButtersAwHamburgers: I will, I will! Every four daysish…

DarkElixier66: It will go to several places…some that won't exactly be the textbook definition of pretty…

-.-

The alarm goes off at six A.M., awakening me and announcing the start of another fucking dreadful day in my piss-poor excuse for a life. I whine around and finally kick off the covers, swinging myself out of bed and into the bathroom for a piss and a shower, wakening to the sting of the cold water, even though I haven't needed a cold shower per se for a good three years.

The apartment is as empty as ever. I live alone with my art, my fears, my depressions, and my pathetic thoughts. My closet is in disarray, and the clothes do little to reveal my job. Still full of the black shirts and black pants that Fatass would be quick to label as hippie attire, and try to kill me again.

Selecting a plain gray tee and slipping a blazer over it, I stepped into some black pants. The coat would probably find itself draped over my chair by the end of my first hour at work. It was constricting, and my job didn't really allow much for constriction. I needed freedom of movement.

If you're wondering, and you might be, what I do…I teach Art at South Park High School. Introductory classes, computer graphics, painting, Studio, claywork…all of it. I'm the High School Art department. I moved back to this shithole of a town just because it was the only job available and I desperately needed some sort of job to pay the bills. My mother and I aren't on speaking terms, and haven't been since she got a hold of my transcript and found out that I wasn't majoring in business. Well, that, and she found out about my addiction.

I first got hooked on Vicodin after another student slammed me into the wall at the Student Union for criticizing his music choices. The doctor prescribed it for the pain, and, it helped. Not just the back pain…the emotional pain. It dulled it, and that was something I needed desperately. Then I started taking more of it, and I found that it helped me think of things to paint and draw…so I took even more. It's a goddamn miracle drug…but I'm highly dependent on it. I'm even more disgusted at myself for the fact that I have to pause at least once a class to take a pill. I sometimes lose track of what I'm saying because my mind's so burned out. I don't have any idea why I still have a job; any administrator worth their lapel pin can tell I'm half out of it when they drop by for a review.

This is the sort of thing I used to be able to take to Stan…before everything happened. Before I got a crush on him. Before I started avoiding him because I had a crush on him. Before I started taking the damn Vicodin so that I could forget that I had a crush on him to begin with. God DAMN I hate myself...

I haven't even talked to Stan in five years. Not even when we were home on break. I spent most of that time sleeping, or drawing, or writing, or studying…basically I lived as a recluse, cutting myself off from the rest of the world, devoting my life to my art.

Now there's a laugh. My art. It's scattered all over the apartment, watercolors, oil paints, sketches…probably a good two hundred, all told. I can't sell a one. Museums of modern art, people at art shows, people on the street…nobody wants it. It doesn't take much to see why…my art is very dark. Very black and red. Tortured souls, all that jazz. Not really something you hang over your fireplace, y'know?

Same with the poetry. A good book and a half's worth, but nobody wants to read it. Same reasons, too. Too dark, too angsty. People are comparing me _negatively_ to Emily Dickinson. Side by side comparison, my average work is a good five times worse than the worst thing she ever wrote, in terms of depressive angst and such. Hell, I can almost beat Poe in that area.

I'm pretty much a failure at everything I try. It's not just the paintings and the poetry that I can't get people to read. I've written a 300-page book on the philosophy of life as I see it that practically every publisher has rejected. Jesus Christ, no one will even let me SELF-publish it. I guess it's because the book's not really something a normal person would understand. It talks about all the things I've been through, how society reacts to a tormented and oppressed minority when that minority begins to display worrisome tendencies: it ignores them.

Not many people talk to me. I don't talk to many people. I kind of like it that way. It lets me think. I carry a sketchbook everywhere I go in case I'm struck with an inspiration. Sometimes, it gets disturbing, sitting by the window in Harbucks, pretty much just waiting for something to happen. Little kids begging for something in a window, car crash…if I see something bad happen, the sketchbook flies open and I record the morbid feelings that run through my mind.

With behavior like that, I guess it's not that surprising that I haven't had a relationship since Rebecca killed herself. No girlfriends, no boyfriends…I'm practically an asexual being. I haven't even fucking had SEX in seven years. No prostitutes, no picking guys up at a bar, no strip clubs. I'm a recluse, and those activities involve leaving my sanctuary, the only place I feel remotely comfortable. I drink my alcohol in the privacy of my house, watching the cable news channels attentively for the bad shit their anchors make a priority of airing over things about seeing-eye dogs. I'm waiting, hopelessly and pointlessly, for the one man I want. The only one I can ever see myself loving, and the one that is ABSOLUTELY, without QUESTION, off-limits to me.

A second alarm beeps, this time on my watch, informing me that it's time for me to be leaving for work. Sighing, I pick up my car keys and pop a Vicodin into my mouth, washing it down with a sip of bottled water as I head downstairs to my car. I hate it when I have to be at school early for stupid fucking meetings. It means something's happening, something's going to upset the balance. The status quo is getting shaken up.

This morning is no different. Walking into school with my bag of art supplies in one hand, I make my way to the library, where the school administration has shooed out any students who were hoping to do some last-minute homework in order to have a meeting. The tables are pushed together in a square, and I take a seat near the door, next to Mrs. Reader, the librarian, who's still there from when I attended SPHS. The only difference is she's five years older, five years closer to retirement, which is something most teachers look forward to. I've only been teaching two years, and I already can't wait. The principal wants everyone's attention, so I swing my gaze up his way, playing along.

"Morning everyone," he says, to the mostly less-than-fully-awake group, a solid majority of which is huddled over their morning coffee. I take the occasional cup, but I have my own substance I'm addicted to, and it helps me a lot more than any amount of caffeine.

"I've got some bad news before we get to our first day back to classes," Mr. Weathers announces. "Coach Vine has had to leave us for a new job to be closer to his family, because his wife is pregnant again and his mother's going slowly insane, so we have had to scramble to find a replacement football coach and P.E. teacher." I take this news rather ambivalently; I never really liked Coach Vine. He was kind of a dick, and the only reason he worked here was probably because of his name: Bo Vine, coach of the Cows. Everybody else found it damn hilarious. I always thought it was stupid.

"I'm happy to welcome our new P.E. teacher and football coach," Mr. Weathers said. "We got him away from the University of Colorado's football program, where he was quarterbacks coach. He's an alumnus of South Park High School, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome…"he said, trailing off and gesturing behind me. As I turned, my mind suddenly tried to remind me of who exactly was the Buffaloes' quarterbacks coach was. It hit me just as I caught a glimpse.

"Stan Marsh."

Oh, fuck.

-.-

**Author's Notes**: hehe…small cliffhanger and a very short chapter, but even ones will probably tend to be that way…I fully intended to give each chapter an even half a page in my planning, but somehow the odd-numbered chapters got away with five lines than the even-numbered ones. Meh.

Anyway, I was excited muchly by the amount of reviews for the last chapter! Don't let me down here! This is looking like a very good story, and every time I get a review, I get a little happier. Trust me; with the type of days I'm having recently, I'll take each little ray of sunshine I can get. Next chapter will probably be up around Thursday or Friday...


	3. Chapter 3

Rescue Me-Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

**Summary: Kyle reacts to Stan's re-entry into his life.**

**Author's Notes:** Woot! This story is turning out rather nicely, in terms of reviews/chapter. And in overall reaction. So, you guys like Emo Kyle, eh? Well, it only gets worse (and by that I mean better, you figure out how) from here.

Reviews:

Flabz: I wouldn't worry about Kyle coming around; he's the one with the crush. Stan is the one who's going to have the problems…pretty damn quick too.

Ren85: It's South Park, kids don't pay attention to teachers! Which is perhaps why Kyle still has a job…the administrators AREN'T worth their lapel pins:D You're welcome, btw.

PPBunny: Well, they're probably painkillers of some sort…they're really the only non-narcotic that can fuck you up…at least, that I know of.

Lumina Lin: Hehe, as do I. You'll see whether or not Stan recognized Kyle…

Style xx: Well, if you insist…darkness will come pretty soon. Next chapter, matter of fact. Huzzah for fanart!

Lilchicky004 (ch1): Yep…that's cuz everyone writes Stan as the one who goes Gothicish…him or Kenny, but Kenny just looks like an emo (cuz he's POOR!)

Lilchicky004 (ch2): Going to unpleasant places. Not terribly squicky places, but not pleasant places either.

EPAF: Thank you very much! I'll review the latest of Light & Dark tomorrow, when I'm not having to work my ass off and not eat for 12 hours…

…and now, on to Chapter 3!

-.-

"Who the FUCK does he think he is?" I asked, waving my arms around wildly as I, for the third time in ten minutes, asked this same question to this same person. Kenny just sat across the booth from me, sipping his coffee in his apron and ridiculous hat.

We were at Kenny's diner, which was named "Kenny's Diner," and I was venting. You see, with Stan no longer available, I'd needed someone else I could trust to talk to about my life. Even I couldn't keep it bottled up all the time. I needed another outlet, and the first thing I'd done when I'd moved back to South Park was look up Kenny.

The poor boy had actually turned out rather well. He'd gotten a degree in culinary arts from a community college and taken out a loan to open this diner. It got pretty good business, and Kenny was a pretty good Chef. I mean that in more ways than one. Sure, he wasn't black, and didn't have that soul-singer voice, but he had remembered our old friend's advice when it came to women. Concurrently, he was unmarried, and was always hanging around bars and places I didn't, dredging for chicks. Love 'em and leave 'em, that was his motto. He was my closest friend, my confidant.

I told him things I couldn't TELL anyone else. Kenny was the only one who knew that I was gay. Kenny was the only person I'd told about my addiction. Kenny was the person I talked to about my sick and disturbed ideas. Kenny was the person…well, you get the point. Every week, at least once a week, I would head over to Kenny's diner after school. He'd come out from the kitchen, pour us both a cup of coffee, and then let me take over. He didn't talk much, but just letting everything out helped me more than any perverted song ever could.

"Seriously, Kenny!" I said, returning to the topic at hand: that bastard, Stan. "He comes in unannounced, not a call, not a letter, not an e-mail…and then he doesn't even talk to me! He just looks at us all and says 'Hi,' before taking a seat and letting Weathers dither on and on about the new dress code and some other stupid bullshit that perhaps TWO teachers actually give a shit about. Doesn't even look at me! Not once. Not as a point of interest, not like he even wants to talk at all!"

"Well hell, Kyle," Kenny replied in between sips. "He probably doesn't recognize you! I mean, give him a goddamn break, the last time he saw you, you didn't exactly look like this, man," he said, indicating my appearance. He's got a point, though. I don't look anything like I did when we got to college.

"Still, there has to have been something familiar about me!" I exclaim. My coffee sits practically untouched in front of me. "The nose? The voice? The fashion sense?" I ask, indicating things about me that haven't really changed since High School.

"Just how badly do you WANT him to notice you?" Kenny asked. I sighed in defeat.

"I don't know," I said. "I really don't, but I kinda also do. Just to see if I have any chance. Plenty of men who live their lives totally straight eventually turn out gay, who's to say that he's not one of them?" Kenny just shrugged, and looked out the window as a couple of cars pulled into the lot.

"I don't know, Kyle," he said. "Sorry man, but I've gotta go. Customers, y'know?" he asked, rising and heading back to the kitchen. I didn't really. Customers were definitely something I had in short supply. I finished my coffee before heading out to my beat up, piece of shit Geo Metro, driving back to my apartment. I need to paint.

_4 hours later_

Well, so much for that. It's NEVER been this bad. EVER! Sure, he sneaks into the occasional painting, but I've never done pieces that are JUST him! Seven times I've taken a blank canvas and picked up my palette. Six times I've finished, sighed in exasperation and frustration, picked up my bucket of white paint and whitewashed the canvas. Saves money, you see? Anyway, I've had to whitewash them because they just KEEP turning into fucking pictures of Stan. Stan in his old football gear. Stan in his new Cows windbreaker and exercise pants. Stan looking fucking fuckable. Stan being the cutest man alive. Stan looking confused. Stan looking butchered…that was the last one.

I've got to take another pill. Sighing again, I put down the paint and head to the bathroom for a pill and a drink. Maybe I need to take a break from this. Watch TV, watch a movie, take a nap, anything but this.

"Oh come on, Kyle," I tell myself. "There's got to be a perfectly good reason why you can't come up with anything but your fucking pathetic crush to paint."

"_Yeah,_" replies the voice in my head that usually shows up when I've taken too many pills in a certain time period, "_it's because you can't get your mind off him, you flaming assrammer! Talk to him, for Christ's sake! Maybe when you get clearly reminded that he's straight, you'll get off this bent of yours and go back to normal._"

"Oh, fuck off," I tell it, then go shed my clothes and jump into my bed. I don't really feel like doing anything else. Besides, sleep's the only way to get rid of that annoying fucking voice, useless piece of shit that it is.

"_I heard that!_" it says.

"I TOLD YOU TO FUCK OFF!!" I scream, pulling the covers up over my body and jamming my head onto my pillow, begging for sleep to come quickly. It grudgingly obliges.

_The next morning_

I wake up early, get dressed quickly, and get to school early. I want to be there before Stan gets there, so I can get to my class before he gets there, so I can spend my entire day in there and not have to go out in the hallway and risk running into him. P.E. teachers always get hallway duty, and the last thing I want, especially after last night, is to have to TALK to him.

No such luck. Because our school is so small, I've got a good bit of the football team in at least one of my classes. It also appears that Stan has got them in for an early morning workout or something, because he's out in the hall just as the team is starting to file out, go do other morning things, like copy homework from the smart kids.

He sees me, but doesn't give me anything more than the informal head-nod greeting between colleagues. I acknowledge it and go to unlock the door to my room when one smart-ass student, one of the last ones to leave the locker room, pipes up.

"Morning, Mr. Broflovski!" The kid in question is in my first intro class of the morning. He also just turned in a pretty decent piece. I make a mental note to drop his grade ten points for subjecting me to this. Once the kids are around the corner and out of earshot, Stan talks to me.

"Kyle?" he asks, just as my lock clicks open. Shit. Shit shit shit _shit SHIT!_ How the hell am I going to get out of this one? Ducking into the room is out of the question, now that he knows who I am; he'll just follow me in. Sighing, I turn around.

"Hi Stan. Long time no see," I say lamely, keys still dangling from the door. I need another pill.

"Like five years, man? How've you been?" he asks. I suppose it's probably because he wants to know why the hell I look so bad, and what the hell I'm doing here.

"Just great," I reply sarcastically. "Can't you see how perfectly happy I am with my life?" Great. Now he looks confused.

"No need to be such a douche about it," he says. "I'm just trying to talk."

"Well, I don't really feel like talking!" I snap back. "I've got shit to do!" _Like take a fucking pill to calm myself down. I'm getting irritable again. Not a good sign._

"Alright, alright, Jesus, get the sand out of your vagina."

"DAMNIT, STAN, I DO NOT HAVE SAND IN MY VAGINA!!" I shout. A patter of feet from the stairs indicates that I've scared off a pack of students. Good. Serves the little bastards right for trying to listen in on a private conversation.

"Thought so," he replies. "Maybe after school? Today's Friday, there's a game tonight, so I've got a little time before I have to be back and start coaching. Do you know a decent place for coffee around here?"

"'Course I do," I say. "Don't be an idiot. Kenny's makes a hell of a cup. Better than Tweak's, not as expensive as Harbucks."

"Kenny's?" he asks, even more confused. I scoff.

"Yes, Kenny's. You know, the poor kid? The one who kept dying and coming back to life? Cartman's pity-BFF?"

"He makes coffee?" Stan asks.

"Better. He's got his own diner. He's like Chef, only not black and a bit skinnier."

"…'Kay," he says. "I'll follow you out there after school. Which car is yours?" he asks.

"The shitty Geo out back," I reply. "Yours is the big new black SUV, right?" I ask, knowing full well the answer. It's the only new car I've seen there. His beaming grin pretty much confirms it.

"Yep!" he announces proudly. "I'll see you after school, Kyle. I've got a feeling we've got a lot to catch up on." Sensing the dismissal, I nod and head into my class, going to the stack of art on my desk and rifling through it for the meddling football player's grade and marking off the extra ten points.

"More than you know, Stan, more than you know," I say to myself, taking a Vicodin and sighing in relief as my nerves are almost instantly calmed.

_Eight Hours Later_

My Geo and Stan's SUV pull into Kenny's parking lot. As I enter, I see Kenny headed out of the kitchen, just as Stan walks in.

"Hi Kyle!" he says. "You were just in here yesterday, what's up?" This confuses Stan.

"Kenny, you remember Stan?" I ask in a pleasant enough voice, as recognition comes to my secret love's eye.

"Hey, Kenny, how ya been?" he asks, coming up and embracing the smaller man in a nearly crushing man-hug. I look on confused, as Kenny briefly chats up Stan, filling him in a little on what he's been up to the past five years. I'm brought back to reality when Kenny tells Stan he'll leave him and me to talk.

Stan walks over to a booth, and looks funny at me when I don't initially follow.

"What's wrong?" he asks. I put on a hurt look and ask, quite plainly and as non-gay as I can, "How come I didn't get a hug?" Stan just laughs and walks over to me.

I imperceptibly swallow nervously as his arms slip around me and he squeezes me tightly. It's just _yesyesyesyesYES!_ It's something that I should definitely not get used to. A one-time only thing, but a one-time only thing that makes me feel better than all the Vicodin I've consumed in the past five years combined.

I follow him over to the booth, where the conversation predictably drifts to my new look.

"Meh," I say, trying to shrug it off. "I just decided I really didn't give a shit anymore. I'd had to live with somebody controlling every facet of my life for the last 13 years, I just turned myself loose, and this is what happened."

"So it wasn't because of…all the shit that happened before we graduated?" Stan asked cautiously.

"Well, that played a part, of course," I begin, but stop as Stan sighs and sinks back into the seat. "What?" I ask.

"I should've guessed," he says. "When you never called, I should've known. You'd let yourself go. Not to the point where you'd kill yourself, I would've seen that in the student paper, but you'd let yourself go. When you wouldn't leave your house during break, I should've known. Why didn't you talk to me, Kyle?" he asks.

"You had your own shit to deal with, Stan, I didn't want you to be burdened with my problems too," I reply. I hope that'll put him off.

"You forget, dude," he said. "I _TOLD_ you to call me anytime. I _WANTED_ your problems. Even back when we were in High School, I'd take all your problems and bring them to confession with me. I was using my secret weapon, getting both of our problems to God. Seeing if there was anything He could do about them."

"That's the strangest thing I've ever heard you say," I remark, my heart rising. He _CARED_ about me. He _CARED!!_

"I didn't want to believe you'd gotten so bad," he said. "This weekend when we were just planning the move back, Wendy saw you at the store, and told me how bad you looked. That you looked pretty much like a zombie, man," Stan said. My ears perked up at the mention of Wendy, and my heart sank.

"What the hell does Wendy have to do with any of this?" I ask.

"What are you, blind?" Stan asks back. "We're engaged." My heart completely fucking shatters. Into billions upon billions of pieces. Smaller than molecules, smaller than atoms, smaller than the smallest quark. That was that, then.

"You know what, Stan?" I ask, not letting him reply. "Fuck you! Take your fake 'I give a shit about Kyle' façade and you go to Hell! You go to Hell and you die!" I stand up from the table, very angry.

"I fucking HATE YOU! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!!" The lack of drugs is taking over. I can't control myself…I have to get away from here. I'm in public. You CAN'T raise a scene in public! You can get sent to prison for that!

Stan's approaching me. I back away, quickly and stumbling towards the door.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!" I shout, quickly opening the door and running to my car. Stan's just standing in the doorway, looking confused as I quickly start up my car and floor it out of there.

I have GOT to get home. This just…it…I don't FUCKING KNOW! Goddamnitall!!

FUCK!

-.-

Author's Notes: Yes…this is another cliffhanger. Just a quick warning, the next chapter will feature 4 or 5 POV switches between Stan and Kyle. It'll be interesting, I promise you that!

Please Review!!

El Autor


	4. Chapter 4

Rescue Me-Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: still not mine.**

**Summary: Repercussions from and aftermath of Kyle's blowup in Kenny's.**

**Author's Notes: **This chapter might take a while. Mainly because its 11:11 and I'm just starting, while trying to read another fic at the same time…it IS an even chapter, which means it shouldn't be long, but there's a lot to this one. A LOT a lot. And it sets up pretty much the entire rest of the fic. This is probably the official end to Part I, but there are a few plot threads that trail into Chapter 5, which is the REAL end to Part I. I'm so nice, I've divided the fic into Three Parts of Five Chapters apiece.

Reviews:

Flabz: Well, it'll eventually make him see he doesn't want to be with Wendy. There's a lot more he's gotta see first…this is just the first in a chain of events, and now you'll actually get to see some things from Stan's POV!

Style-xx: Of course not. Little inquisitive Stan, in fact, is going to want to do some investigating!

Ren85: I don't even sincerely know why I put that in there. I seriously don't. It could be that I just don't remember, but…no, I put some thought into it. I just don't know why. Meh.

PP. Bunny: I work hard. This is gonna be hard to write this chapter. Bad memories…both for me and Kyle.

Lumina Lin: I take absolutely know pleasure in making Kyle miserable. It makes me feel terrible. But at the same time, it makes Stan see he's being a dick, so…it's a trade off.

TDtheMagicMan: Hello! I know I've already gone over this sorta with you on DA, but Thanks Much! Heh…and thanks for that recommendation too! It was sincerely amazing…and has made me only get this far in half an hour since I started writing this chapter. And I started reading that at about ten fifteen…amazing.

Now, for the ficcage! Starting out in Stan's POV! 

-.-

The only thing I'm hearing is the squeal of the tires on his car as he peels out of Kenny's parking lot. The only thing I'm seeing is the receding form of that yellow Geo with the dented fender, scratched paint, cracked windshield and broken turn signal as it flees back into town.

I'm standing there in shock, in the doorway of the diner of an old friend, watching another old friend completely lose his self-control. Kyle's had his problems, sure, but he's never been like this before. He's never screamed at me like that. He's never told me to do things like that.

I feel a pair of arms on my shoulders, someone steering me back towards the booth I was sharing with him, still looking at his car out the window until I'm jolted back to reality by a punch to the arm.

"Stan, come back to it, man," Kenny says, reaching over to hit me again. I grab his hand and push it back.

"What," is the only word I manage before Kenny cuts me off.

"You want to know why Kyle just spazzed out on you, don't you?" he asks. I can only nod dumbly. Kenny sighs and indicates that I should settle in.

"Well," he begins, "ever since he got back to town, he's been…different. He comes to me every once in a while, and talks to me about his problems, without really expecting much more than for me to listen. I know exactly why he did that, and I'm prepared to tell you why, Stan, but it's a VERY long story."

"Kenny, I've got as long as I need. I've been coach for all of two days. They can do this game without me if they have to. What is wrong with Kyle?" I ask, clearly expecting him to make this as short as he can.

"Alright, I'm guessing you know that Kyle teaches art, right?" Kenny asks. I nod affirmatively. He continues, "Well, then you can probably figure out that he didn't major in Business. Kyle graduated with a major in Art and Philosophy. He tried to just live as an artist, but his art…isn't exactly something that makes people cheerful," Kenny says.

"How's that?" I ask. I thought art was happy things, flowers and portraits and cute little frolicking bunnies.

"His art is almost Gothic in quality, Stan," I'm told. "Pictures of torture and death. Blood and gore. Reds and blacks. I don't think Kyle owns a single color he can't use to create an image of despair."

"I'm still not understanding, Kenny," I say. Kenny shakes his head at me.

"Look at the clothes. He's not the Kyle we grew up with. He told you that he just turned himself loose, that he decided he didn't give a shit about what he looks like. That's true. He doesn't. He's what the kids call an Emo. He doesn't do the whole 'Life is pain' bit that the Goths do, but he's very dark. His art is dark, so no one buys it," Kenny says. "He writes poetry, but it's just as bad, and nobody buys it. He's written a book on his philosophy about what society does to minorities, but he can't get it published. He thinks he's a failure, Stan."

"But that doesn't explain why he completely flipped on me," I say. "Doesn't even come close! I barely said anything. There's more to this, isn't there?" I ask, and Kenny nods.

"He's an addict, Stan." I'm completely blown away. Kyle Broflovski is on drugs? Kyle? Not my Kyle, not the kid I grew up with. Kenny apparently picks up on this reaction, and decides to clarify things for me.

"He's not shooting anything up or snorting cocaine, don't worry about that," he rushes to say, coming to his friend's defense. "It's…well, have you seen that TV show on Fox about that condescending doctor who's a fucking medical genius?" he asks.

"Yeah, I watch House," I reply. "He's a Vicodin addict…wait…Kyle's a Vicodin addict?"

"Yep," Kenny replies. "He gets very irritable if he misses a dose. He needs about one an hour to function even close to normal…and for him, normal is so artificially happy when he crashes, Satan himself would be disgusted at the things he paints. Judging by the way he tore into you, I'd say he's missed two full doses."

"But Kenny," I say, still trying to make sense of all this, "Something still had to set him off, even if he was getting irritable for missing a fix." Kenny nods again.

"What was the last thing you said?" he asks me. I play the conversation back through my head.

"I told him I was engaged to Wendy," I reply. He snaps his fingers.

"Bingo," he says. I just look at him confusedly, seeking a better explanation.

"Your exact words were, 'What are you, blind? We're engaged,'" he tells me, as if that'll make this all make sense.

"Still confused, Ken," I tell him. He sighs in frustration.

"Looks like you're the blind one, Stan old buddy," he tells me. "Kyle's pissed off that you're getting hitched to Wendy because he's GAY. And he's gay for YOU."

I'm absolutely, completely, and without question, shocked. This is only exacerbated when Kenny gets up, pulls me out of the booth, and begins pushing me towards my car. The reason he gives for this doesn't help matters any.

-.-

_Kyle's POV_

I run, literally run, through my front door. The car is double-parked, but I seriously don't care at the moment.

My life is over. It is completely over. Even as I take three pills to make up for lost time, I know that there's no point to continuing on. The voice in my head was right, once again. It's always right.

Stan's completely, undeniably, up-and-down, purely heterosexual. The straight man's straight man. So straight that he could've been used in the old West to secure a horse. Straight as a post.

Then there's me. I'm gayer than Liberace. I've got a boner for the man that I'd bend over backwards – in either interpretation of that double entendre – for. I can't have him. I can't, I just can't.

It was fine when I couldn't even – didn't HAVE to – see him. He was way over in Boulder, and I was stuck in this shithole of a town. I could go to sleep at night and dream of the future that I would never have without any repercussions. But now…now he's back, and if I had those dreams, and have to look at him the next day…I'd go completely nuts.

I can't do that to myself. I can't do that to everyone. It's not fair to me or them. It's not fair to him, to have to go through his happy married life knowing that his best friend wants to be in his wife's place.

I have to die. That's just it. All the terrible things I've done up until now, are nothing compared to this. To make him live his life like that, that's something I can't do to him. He KNOWS. There's no way he can't know, even if he is too dumb to put two and two together with my little blowup after I found out about what he did…Kenny would have led him through it. I know he would have. He can't keep secrets for shit. I don't know why I trusted him. I just didn't have anyone else to turn to.

So, the only man I ever want to have, who is the only man I can't have, knows that he's the only man I ever want to have, and is the only man I can't have. I'm as dependent on him as I am on my Vicodin. I always have been. He kept me together as a kid. Anytime I had a problem, I went to him. He wanted me to, but I didn't know that. Symbiotic in actuality, parasitic in perceptive.

He's kept me from killing myself once, but I swear to all the deities worshipped by anyone anywhere that he won't have that pleasure again. It's his fault and all for him, this time. He's both the cause of and the solution to my problems.

I head to my bathroom. I haven't used this thing in a while…I'll have to find it.

-.-

_Stan's POV_

It's not exactly a good thing to speed through town in an SUV. They don't have the handling of a sports car. I don't even really know why I drive it; SUVs are for people with big families. I'm not even MARRIED yet.

When Kenny told me what Kyle would do, I stiffened. He wouldn't. He COULDN'T. There's no way I could get married without Kyle at my side. Kenny's a great friend and all, but…he's not Kyle.

He's not Kyle.

So, because Kenny's not Kyle, I'm driving down the main street of South Park at close to 55 miles per hour. Luckily for me, there's not a cop in sight. I have to save Kyle from himself, once again. I've done it before, I'll do it again.

Now…that's Pioneer that I just passed…I need to take a left on Oregon, one street down…NOW! Jerking the wheel, I have to wonder about the way Kenny gives directions. There's GOT to be a quicker way to get to Kyle's apartment. There HAS to be…

Wait!

There it is, right in front of me. That beaten up car that represents all of Kyle's changes. He's beaten up, he's scratched, he's bent, he's cracked, he's broken…but he's still going. Not if he gets what he wants, but he's still going.

Slamming on the breaks and jerking the wheel again, I pull into the space next to his car again, slam the gearshift into Park and turn off the car, jerking the key from the ignition as I fling open the door and run for the stairs.

Hold on, Kyle, I'm coming!

-.-

_Kyle's POV_

This is it. I've found my old razor, under an old can of shaving cream, and I'm going to do one last good deed.

Interesting, really, that my life is so bad that suicide is good. Not the best of last thoughts, but it keeps my mind off the reasons for my killing myself.

I can't help myself, though. I wish I could actually tell him why I have to do this, but there's no time for notes. He'll figure it out, of course. Or Kenny will, and tell him. He'll cry about it for a while, but then he'll let Kenny be his best man and best friend, and Kenny'll let him be HIS best friend, and I'll just be forgotten and fade away.

That is the way of things. The way of the Force. Oh mind, BAD time for a Star Wars reference. But it IS the way of things. The way of the world.

Rolling up the sleeve of my shirt, I hover the razor over the vein, as my mind recalls the proper procedure.

"Remember, Kyle," I tell myself. "Down the road, not across the street. No one's ever killed themselves by slashing their wrists."

As I press the blade to my skin, my mind triggers a memory of the last time this happened.

_Flashback_

"_Put the knife down, Kyle." The one person who could get to me, who'd helped me countless times without ever accepting recompense. If I had a problem, he had a solution. When Cartman tried to kill me, he was the one who'd called 911, ridden with me to the hospital, stayed with me, and encouraged me to talk to the police. He was the one who'd convinced me to testify, and had taken the day off from school with me when I was in court for that purpose. He'd been my rock after Rebecca's death. I spent that night, and several nights thereafter, crying into his shoulder. I think I ruined at least two of his shirts. Now, here he was again, trying to keep me here. Cursing my luck, I answered him, keeping the knife exactly where it was._

"_Why should I, huh? At least in Hell, I can get a tan, and I can do shit without the bitch lecturing me for hours on end about how it's going to ruin my future. Tell me why the fuck I should put the knife down, Stan," I said. I heard him sigh, walk over to me and pluck the knife from my grasp._

"_Because I said so, Kyle. There's no way I'd let you get away with it, you know," he said, steering me back to my room and sitting me on my bed. "I'd kill Kenny every day just so he could talk to you and tell you how pissed off I was at you. You may think I'm the only thing that keeps you going, but you help me too, dude." Stan had pulled up a chair and was sitting in it backwards, resting his chin on the chair back._

"_Now, aside from your mother, do you have any other reason to kill yourself, waste yourself like that?" he asked. I began to explain about how my life had been a living hell for the past two years, but Stan cut me off._

"_Don't give me that, dude," he said. "It's been hard on us, too. We were in high school, Kyle! We're not supposed to have to have classmates on trial for hate-related attempted murder, or have to go to a classmate's funeral because that classmate killed herself. It happened to us too, you just were closer to them than most of the rest of us."_

_End Flashback_

I feel something wet rolling down my cheeks. Oh Jesus fuck I'm crying. There's some noise going on outside…squealing brakes, slamming doors, pounding feet…

I've got to do this now. If I don't then I'll never get the chance.

Quickly, I draw the blade up one arm, opening up the vein and letting the blood flow out as I switch the blade to the already cut arm and slice open the other just as I hear a commotion at the front door. Somebody's pounding on it.

I turn around to answer it, but I don't get very far.

-.-

_Stan's POV_

I scramble up the stairs and reach for Kyle's doorknob, turning it and trying to open the door, but it's locked.

I pound on the door, trying to distract him, and get him to answer it, but nothing.

So I resort to option three. Drawing my foot back, I kick it in and burst through the destroyed entryway. There's someone in the bathroom. It's gotta be Kyle. There's an open bottle of pills on the coffee table.

The person in the bathroom turns to face me. It's Kyle…and I might be too late. He's already made the cuts…and they've been done right.

Oh, no.

Oh, Kyle…

_Why?_

-.-

Author's Notes: Alright, that's it for chapter 4! I think it turned out pretty nicely, almost just like I planned it…and it only took me an extra hour of sleep lost to do it!

Please read and review!

El autor


	5. Chapter 5

Rescue Me-Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Don't Own It**

**Summary: What happens to Kyle?**

**Author's Notes:** Ok…I bet you're all thinking to yourselves, WTF? It's Tuesday, this story shouldn't be updated for another two days at least! Well, if you must know, I have two pretty good reasons for putting it up early. The first is that I've been losing sleep over how I'm going to write this chapter, so the sooner I can get it dealt with, the better. The second is, I found myself (thanks to a cancelled class) with a spare two hours this afternoon and, well, I got bored. So, here's Chapter 5, in Stan's POV.

Reviews:

Flabz: Don't rush meeeeee!! Although…that was a nifty bit of pre-slash at the end of 4 now, wasn't it?

ButtersAwHamburgers: Better? How does it keep getting better? Kyle's been going downhill since Chapter 1! XD I'm Just Kidding, thanks for the review.

Style xx: Yes, very intense, and I paid the price for it yesterday morning. At least I now know where my snooze button is and how it works…

Ren85: Yes, and his reasoning is good, even if he doesn't have it…exactly…right yet. I don't think things can possibly get any worse, except maybe for Kenny…but he's not that important to the story, and I don't want to kill him just for laughs.

PPBunny: Curses and Drat! Nope, I can't kill him…but there are other ways of removing him as the point of attention…

Lilchicky004 (ch.3): Well…look what he does when he doesn't have them, though/goes and thinks of Stan with a screwdriver and wrench tinkering with Kyle…hehe, oh God "Kyle, I need to tighten a couple of your nuts…" or "Real loose screw, Kyle…"

/hides from mechanics

Lilchicky004 (ch.4): Soon enough?

-.-

As he stares at me sadly, I spring into action. Hopping over all the crap he has scattered about the place, I run into the bathroom and grab two towels and a gauze pad.

It's been a while since I took first aid, but that doesn't stop me from wrapping the towels around his arms and cinching them in place with the gauze. It's not the tightest thing in the world, however, and it won't do much to staunch the flow of blood.

I frantically gaze about the apartment looking for something, anything, that'll cut off his circulation…amidst all the art scattered about, there's got to be something to keep it all together. Finally I find some rubber bands on a side table and stretch them over each towel, with somewhat better effect. I need to get him to the hospital, or he'll still bleed to death.

The problem with that is, he doesn't look like he can move all that well.

"Goddamnit, Kyle," I say, hefting him into my arms and running for the door. It's not like there's much to lift, I'd be rather surprised if he weighed anything over 150. Scrawny as always, only worsened by a substantial lack of what could be considered decent food. For Christ's sake, Kenny never looked this bad.

I hustle down the stairs and sprint for my SUV, laying Kyle down in the middle seats before leaping into my own and starting the car hard to the second time in less than half an hour. I nearly break off the gearshift in my enthusiasm to put it in reverse, and hit the gas so hard we shoot out of the parking space and halfway down the block before I shift just as hard into drive, tearing my way once again through South Park.

Now I just have to remember how to get to Hell's Pass…and that's not coming up. Cursing, I reach for the cell phone and bark at the operator to get me Kenny's Diner. In a huff she complies, and the phone is ringing.

"_Kenny's_," the voice on the other end answers.

"Kenny! It's Stan, how the hell do I get to the hospital from Kyle's?" I shout into the phone, very impatiently.

"_Jesus, what happened?_" he asks. I slam my free hand down on the steering wheel.

"NO TIME, KENNY!! How do I get to the hospital!?!"

"_Christ, alright, I heard you! Left back onto Main, follow it to Rocky, Left on Rocky until Pike, Pike to the Highway, follow it to Hell's Pass_," Kenny tells me.

"Thank you!" I shoot back. "Get down there yourself as soon as you can!" That said, I hang up, toss the cell phone into the passenger seat and head left onto Main.

This is the worst I've ever driven. Even Barbrady would give me a ticket for the way I'm driving. I'm pretty sure going sixty through a twenty-five zone is grounds for license revocation, but I don't care who catches me. I need to get Kyle to the hospital, or he's going to die!

_A short time later_

I don't think Chef even ever drove to Hell's Pass this quickly. I've covered the distance in less than fifteen minutes. Slamming the car back into park, I unbuckle and jump out, opening the back and lifting up Kyle, who's just beginning to show blood through the towels. Shutting both doors, I run for the ER entrance.

"I NEED HELP OVER HERE!" I scream upon making through the double doors. This, of course, attracts the attention of pretty much everybody in the hospital, and draws three nurses and a doctor over to where I'm holding Kyle.

"What the hell happened?" the man in the white coat asks, motioning for two of the nurses to go get a stretcher.

"Suicide attempt," I answer. "Done right, too. Razor cuts straight up the arms, pretty much from wrist to elbow along the vein."

The gurney arrives, and I gently set Kyle down on it, watching helplessly as the doctor heads off towards one of the main treatment rooms, reassuring me that everything'll be alright, and indicating I might want to find a suitable parking space for my vehicle.

Smacking myself in the head, I head back outside and properly park the SUV, checking the time on my watch. It's 5:15…I should be back at school getting ready for the game by now. I can't do that, though, not until I'm sure Kyle's gonna be fine.

The door opens and I'm alerted to the presence of Kenny, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski. Kenny spots me quickly and hurries over to me, leaving Sheila to enquire loudly as to where her son is, prompting an argument with the receptionist.

This at least will allow me a small conversation with Kenny, whose first question, predictably, is "OK, what the fuck is going on?"

"Kyle tried to kill himself, just like you said," I reply. "Only he didn't exactly do it the way you thought he would."

"He didn't try to OD on the V?" Kenny asks. "Then what the fuck'd he DO?"

"Razor," I reply rather lamely. "The fucker CUT himself. Right before I got there, too. The wounds were fresh when I broke down the door and found him."

"You BROKE DOWN HIS DOOR?" Kenny asks incredulously. I nod.

"Yeah, of course. He wasn't answering, dude, and he'd locked the damn thing," I reply. "How else was I supposed to get in?"

"Touché," Kenny remarked, before saying seven words that shock me to the core.

"This is all your fault, you know," he says. It's not even a question; Kenny treats it as a statement of fact.

"How the hell is this my fault?"

"Because of what you said, dumbass!"

"Hey, it's not like I knew what I said would touch him off so much!" I reply angrily.

"**_I _**DID!" Kenny replies back, ever the smartass.

"Care to enlighten me as to how you knew Kyle would want to kill himself because I told him I was marrying Wendy?"

"You're such a dumbass!" Kenny replies. I'm very close to throttling him. "It's not because you're marrying _Wendy_," he says, which confuses me. At least until he finishes with, "It's BECAUSE you're _NOT_ marrying **_HIM_**." Then I'm frozen in my tracks.

Wait a minute. Kyle's upset because I'm not marrying _HIM_? Kyle wants to kill himself over ME?

Then my ever-so-helpful mind refreshes me on what I'd been told earlier.

_Flashback_

"_But Kenny," I say, still trying to make sense of all this, "Something still had to set him off, even if he was getting irritable for missing a fix." Kenny nods again._

"_What was the last thing you said?" he asks me. I play the conversation back through my head._

"_I told him I was engaged to Wendy," I reply. He snaps his fingers._

"_Bingo," he says. I just look at him confusedly, seeking a better explanation._

"_Your exact words were, 'What are you, blind? We're engaged,'" he tells me, as if that'll make this all make sense._

"_Still confused, Ken," I tell him. He sighs in frustration._

"_Looks like you're the blind one, Stan old buddy," he tells me. "Kyle's pissed off that you're getting hitched to Wendy because he's GAY. And he's gay for YOU."_

_End Flashback_

**OH. MY. GOD!!!**

I turn and run from the hospital, just as the nurses are approaching Kenny and the Broflovskis.

Kenny shouts a "Where are you going?" after me, but I don't listen. I don't even stop to think about anything until I'm in my SUV, and it's pointed towards South Park.

What the _HELL_ am I gonna do now?

-.-

Author's Notes: Bleh. Bleh bleh bleh bleh bleh.

This chapter SUCKS.

Completely and totally, and I don't care what you say otherwise.

Vague actions, too many actions, too many verbs! Ack!

Anyway, leave a review (leave lots, actually), and we'll see about getting you Chapter 6 on Thursday, like normal.

Oh yeah, as an afterthought…**PART ONE OF THIS STORY IS NOW COMPLETE.**

El autor


	6. Chapter 6

Rescue Me-Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: They're still not mine**

**Summary: Stan thinks about Kyle.**

**Author's Notes: **Another day, another dollar. Another angry me…mainly because people where I am are practically shitting their pants over a measly INCH (singular INCH) of snow. They even had a bunch of wrecks! Pathetic n00bz…

ANYWAY…Part II begins here. All but one of these five chapters will be predominately Stan's POV, because now Stan will begin the long and angsty road of examining and (re)assessing his relationship with Kyle. Heheh…

Reviews:

Lumina Lin: Not really as much actual active effort as you might think…although some of the thing's he's done in the five years I skipped will play a big part…

ButtersAwHamburgers: Well, here it is! TYVM

Lilchicky004: Stan is going to do a lot of thinking. Kyle is going to do a lot of sleeping. And I still stand by my original opinion about Chapter 5. It sucks, unequivocally.

Ren85: Well…I guess Kenny thought Stan would've picked up on it at college. Apparently not, so…

Flabz: Hehe…yep, he's caught on…and is scared out his fragile little mahnd…

PP. Bunny: Yeah…well Stan kinda got caught up in the heat of the moment…busy saving lives and all that fun stuff, he forgets little things concerning sexuality.

-.-

_Tweeeeeeeet!_

The whistle brings me back to my senses. I really haven't been myself tonight. A quick glance at the scoreboard reveals to me that my Cows just picked up a first down, and are on our opponents 25. We're already up by two touchdowns, and there are only about five minutes left in the game, so I'm allowed a little leeway.

Grabbing one of the wide receivers, I glance at my play sheet for the red zone offense. I've been calling plays in three at a time, to give myself more time to think.

"Tell Terry to run Counter Right 5, Buttonhook Left 80, and Draw 22," I say to the receiver, not even bothering to remember who I'm addressing. He nods and trots on to the field as another receiver runs off. I return to my musings.

Their subject this evening is the man I carried into the ER a little more than three hours ago. Kyle. My best friend, who I just found out is a suicidal, Vicodin-addicted artist who has a boner for me.

I've been thinking all night about my life with Kyle. All the shit we've been through together, all the shit I've been through with him. Like the time he had that kidney disease, the time he had that hemorrhoid, the time his little brother was about to have his _bris_, the time Barbara Streisand turned into a huge robot and destroyed the town, the time his bitchy mother started a war with Canada, the times we killed Kenny (We're Bastards!), the time Al Gore tried to trick us into worrying about some strange-ass fantasy animal…you get the point.

We were practically inseparable from the first time we met. It was Kyle and Stan, and Kenny and Cartman. We were all four friends, of some sort or another, but Kenny and Cartman were friends out of pity (at least on Kenny's part), while Kyle and I had a bond. There wasn't anything we wouldn't do for the other. BFFs, you know the type. The kind that had a bunch of pair pictures on their MySpaces and Facebooks, all of them with a really silly story behind them. Of course, half the time the stories behind the ridiculous pictures on OUR MySpaces and Facebooks were as unbelievable as the pictures themselves. I'd gone over my archived photos and journal entries a few months back, and come across one of Kyle and me at Ike's bar mitzvah, when Cartman had attempted to get the Canadian Air Force to bomb the local synagogue. That was about two months before Fatass had attempted to kill Kyle…

_Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeet_!

Again, I look at the scoreboard, shaking off my thoughts and focusing on my new situation. OK…it's 4th and 3 from their…18.

"Get Joe out there!" I shout. Joe Mulberry was our kicker, and he was absolutely awesome. I hadn't told him, but Colorado was very interested in offering him a nearly-full scholarship. He'd easily win a starting job; hell, the kid could kick 50 yards without barely breaking a sweat. This 30-yarder would be as easy for him as it would be for Barry Bonds to hit a home run out of a tee-ball park. One of my assistants digs Joe out of the crowd of students and hands him a tee, shoving him onto the field and allowing me to return to my thoughts.

By now, they've moved on to what Kenny said. Both at the diner and at Hell's Pass. That Kyle was gay for me, that he had tried to kill himself because he couldn't marry me. Well, he could if he drugged me and blindfolded me and made me elope with him at a wedding chapel in Denver, but I get the sense that that's beyond the point. Kyle, I think, has been in love with me for quite a while. He's constantly beaten himself up over his inability to have me, and in the process has ruined his own life so he can be as miserable physically as he is mentally.

While he essentially put me on his "Dead to Me" list when we got to college, I never stopped trying to make him talk to me. Well, at least not at first. For the first couple weeks I sent him about fifty texts and voice mail messages and emails (combined) a day, trying to get him to talk to me. After that, I dropped it back to a couple e-mails every once in a while. I acquired and memorized his class schedule every semester, hanging out near/not-quite stalking him in hopes of getting him to talk to me again.

Truth be told, I didn't find out about his collapse from Wendy secondhand. I witnessed it myself. It was about two months into our freshman year when I noticed him start to pop pills. I missed the reason why, but through some quiet inquiries I found out about the fight in the Union. I saw his style change, and made a point of going to all the art exhibitions and buying at least one of his pieces. They're in my private study back home. Wendy doesn't like them, and can't understand for the life of me why I have them. She's not really fond of Kyle.

There's just…something about Kyle that I can't let go of. I know I'm not being realistic here, and that most childhood friendships don't last longer than that, but we've been through too much shit together. You can't forget somebody you start a Resistance group with, or who you draw a gun on, or who you are dragged along on one harebrained scheme after another with. I can't picture my wedding without Kyle there beside me. It'd be like a crime against nature or something. I'll get him cleaned up and at that wedding even if it kills both of us. If he's not there, I'm not having it.

-.-

_Kyle's POV_

There is a strange beeping going on next to my head. Which is strange, because I never expected my afterlife to have a…heart monitor…anywhere…near me. This, of course, means that I have failed at yet another thing. Jesus Christ, I can't even KILL myself properly.

Somebody's trying to talk to me, so I move my arms to rub my eyes awake. Or, that is, I TRY to move my arms. They won't budge. They've been secured by something, and pulling on the restraints sends a shooting fire up my arm from my wrist to my elbow…coincidentally, along the path my razors had traced not too long ago. Oh, Goddamnit, that means they saved me. But who? Who saved me?

I vaguely remember the front door bursting open and somebody running in. It was a guy, and he was very frantic about everything…He did something to my arms…He picked me up…there were stairs and a car…and he started yelling and swearing at somebody…then there was fastness…then I don't remember anything. I must have passed out from blood loss.

Sighing, I wrench my eyes open. There's Kenny. If that son of a bitch saved me just so he can make me go watch Stan marry that undeserving whore, Wendy, as soon as I can move my arms I'll kill him for good! Wait a minute though…Kenny's a blonde. The man who saved me had black hair…and was wearing athletic clothes…and was very strong…no. No fucking way he sent STAN after me. The same Stan I was trying to rid myself of.

"You son of a bitch!" I scream at him. That marks the second thing I'm aware of…I haven't had any Vicodin in a while. "You sent Stan after me! Why in the fuck would you do that? Do you have no sense at all, Kenny? I did this so he WOULDN'T have to worry about me anymore, not so you could give him a reason TO worry about me some more!"

Kenny opens his mouth to reply, but somebody else speaks instead.

"Calm down, Mr. Broflovski." It's a male voice, probably a doctor.

"Oh fuck you!" I retort. "I don't even want to be here! I should be lying dead in a pool of my blood by now, god damn it!"

"I'm afraid that if you don't calm down, we're going to have to sedate you until we can get the Vicodin out of your system," the man says.

"Go right the fuck ahead! I don't WANT the damn Vicodin out of my system. I NEED it there, it helps me function," I say.

"Quite the opposite," he says. "You're so dependent on the Vicodin, it is no longer performing the function it was originally prescribed for. I cannot allow you to continue taking it."

"Fine then, let me repeat myself, Doctor. Fuck you!" I say.

"Have it your way then," he says, and injects a syringe of something into my IV. I open my mouth to inject a witty retort into the room, but the sedative kicks in rather quickly and the words die on the tip of my tongue as I slide into a forced sleep.

Fucking doctors.

-.-

_Stan's POV_

Well, the game's over. It's been over for about a couple hours. We won, of course, and I let the students do a victory lap, and then I gave them a (at least I think) semi-decent congratulatory speech and send them to the showers while I headed to my office.

Which is where I am right now. Sitting in my chair and staring at the wall. I've had all my stuff packed and ready to go for the past hour, but I've found myself unable to stop thinking about the situation I dropped myself into this afternoon.

I suppose there's only one way I'm going to be able to settle this. I'm going to have to go to his apartment, and try to see if I can get anything out of his stuff. Maybe he's kept a diary or something I can look at and read. It's just a hunch I have.

Sighing, I pick up my satchel, exit my office, turn off the lights and lock the door, then repeat the same process for the locker room and head out to my SUV. I'm finally going to drive the posted speed limit, for only the third time today. The sad thing is, I have to drive out to Kenny's Diner to find my way to Kyle's apartment, because that's the only way I know to get there. I suppose I'll eventually figure out a shortcut, but for now…

Parking next to his car again, I turn off my SUV and make my way upstairs to the newly-repaired door. It's locked, and I'm forced downstairs to find the landlord.

"Can I have the key to Apartment 4-B please?" I ask the man, who appears a little older than my dad.

"You're not Mr. Broflovski," the man says, pointing out the obvious. Biting back my urges to call him an astute R-tard, I compose myself and come up with a slightly better answer.

"No, I'm not. I'm Coach Marsh, I work with him at the High School. He's in the hospital and asked me to pick up a few things for him while he's there." The old man seems to ponder this for a while before my name registers.

"Oh, Stan! You should've mentioned that earlier. Hell of a job tonight, Coach. You want the key to the Jewish guy's apartment, you said? No problem," he says. "It's looking like we might have a decent season for the first time since…well, since you left for college, actually," he quips, plucking the new door key off a ring and handing it to me.

"Thanks," I say, and turn to go as he shouts a final "Go Cows!" after me, which I reply to with a V-for-Victory sign as I return to the stairs, going up and letting myself into Kyle's apartment and flip on the lights.

My first reaction is that I can't believe how disorganized my once Anal-Retentive About Organizing best friend has become. There are paintings stacked against almost all the walls, except for the one the TV is pushed up against, and the one the computer desk sits on. It also appears he's still using the same computer he got when he first arrived at college, and there's a drawer of that desk overflowing with papers. Actually, there are two drawers in that desk that are overflowing with papers.

My eye returns to the art, though. It is apparently organized, in a rudimentary fashion, and there's an easel set up behind the couch. The paintings themselves aren't that different from the things I have hanging in my study.

Walking over to the stacks, I pick up the first one and study it. It has the normal reds and blacks that are a staple of Kyle's work, the broken brick walls and stalactites and stalagmites, the demons and the pitiful souls. But there's something that's different about this piece. The tortured soul looks like a pitiful representation of Kyle himself, and there's a figure in front of him with a white aura and a flaming sword, protecting this soul from the hellish figures. Peering closer, I recognize some very familiar attributes of this angel…it's me.

Setting that painting back in its place in line, I go through each and every painting and sketch in Kyle's apartment. There are 345 of them all told, and with the critical look I give each of them it takes me until three A.M. to finish looking, taking a pause at one A.M. for coffee (which is pretty poorly made, because Kyle apparently doesn't keep much on hand, and what he has isn't fresh). Of the 345, I appear as a savior figure in 285. The other 60 are…rather gruesome, macabre paintings of car accidents and mangled bodies, with a few self-portraits and…fantasy images of me mixed in. Of the 285 (I kept a tally), in about half of those I'm an angel, in the rest, I'm cradling a broken figure in anguish and despair myself, wishing the soul to be at peace, dressed still in all-white and with a powerful light aura around me.

I'm not the world's foremost expert in art interpretation, but knowing the artist as I do, I can interpret from the drawings and paintings that Kyle sees me as a beacon of hope, a pinnacle of unattainable virtue trying to save a pathetic, wretched soul (him, 175 times) used up and tossed to the demons by the societal dogs. It kind of scares me, knowing that Kyle had placed me on such a pedestal. It also adds to the reason for his blow-up in Kenny's. He got his hopes up that his fantasy image of me would turn out to be the real me, and my announcement of my engagement brought that dream crashing down.

After looking at all the art, and another cup of coffee, I head over to the desk to start looking at all the stray papers. I start this task at three-thirty A.M., and it takes me until six A.M. to finish all two hundred and sixty-four of them. Again, the same as the art. Kyle bemoans his wretched wreck of a life, and waxes about how he can be redeemed. I appear in one form or another in two hundred and thirty poems. Here's an example, it's not even one of the worst. This, I'm guessing, is him either in a truly good mood or him after a fresh dose of Vicodin.

_**The darkness surrounds.**_

_**The torture abounds.**_

_**Every hour, it's not fair**_

_**My body cries out in despair.**_

_**There's only one thing that I'm needing,**_

_**To make me stop this spiritual bleeding.**_

_**Ever since he left my life,**_

_**I've experienced naught but strife.**_

_**Should I come near him again,**_

_**I strongly feel my fear would win,**_

_**And send me fleeing from his arms,**_

_**The only place I'm ever warm.**_

_**Oh heart oh heart,**_

_**Why oh why must you impart,**_

_**Such terrible fear upon my soul,**_

_**For without him, I am not whole.**_

That's pretty much the long and short of it. I've been here all night, looking for answers to all my questions about Kyle. Instead, I've only raised more questions with myself. How can I help him? What about his feelings? Can I help him without hurting him further? Can I help him without hurting myself?

There's only one place I can go…I'm going to have to go to him. I'll stay in the hospital until he wakes up, and I can ask him about all this myself. Getting out my camera phone, I take a few pictures of his art and poems with my digital camera. Best to have some examples when I talk to him about all this.

Finishing off the last of the coffee and resolving to drop by Kenny's for a better pick-me-up before heading to the hospital, I take along one of Kyle's sketchbooks and one of his notebooks before turning off the lights and re-locking the door, adding the key to my own key ring on my way to my car. Placing the sketchbook and notebook in the passenger seat on top of my own satchel, I retrieve his school materials from his car and add it to the things I'm taking him before getting back into my car and starting it up, headed for Kenny's.

Goddamnit, I WILL get to the bottom of this.

-.-

Author's Notes: Wow…that was interesting to write. I just made up that poem myself off the top of my head. It's untitled, but copyright Kyle via Me. I rather kind of like the way that turned out, and the way this chapter turned out.

Let me know what you thought of it by reviewing down below! I have no idea how it's happening, but I'm getting more long chapters out of the even plans, even though they're shorter than the odd plans. Maybe it's because I have to be so vague, I allow myself to embellish. Oh well.

El autor


	7. Chapter 7

Rescue Me-Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**Summary: More thoughts from Stan regarding Kyle.**

**Author's Notes: **Ok…I'm a little disappointed in the lack of reviews for chapter 6…only 4, which is only 2/3 of normal…I can't really complain, cuz I'm happy with what it's on track to do, but I would like to see a few more reviews per chappie…at least 6. Ten would make me very happy, but I won't hold out hope…

This chapter will be mostly Stan POV, but there will be a little bit of Kyle's POV at the end, in order to set up Chapter 8 properly.

Back to reviews…

ButtersAwHamburgers: 'Kay…here you go.

Ren85: Sooner than you think .

Flabz: I did indeed. I'm thinking about entering in some sort of campus literary competition coming up…even though I hate poetry. I'm too damn good at it to hate it as much as I do…meh.

Zakuyoe: Well, hello! Thank you, thank you, I will, and hope you're feeling better by now…I've got a head problem as well…something in my neck hurts when I turn my head to the right…stupid nerve endings.

-.-

I've arrived at the hospital operating on zero sleep, and two fresh cups of Kenny's coffee warming me up and jolting my nerves back to an undead state. And when I say "undead," the lack of hyphen means I'm seriously acting like a zombie. Minimal interaction, no vocalizations more than a grunt. Basically me after awakening on a normal day, but this isn't a normal day.

I'm back at the hospital. I've had to come back because I need answers from Kyle. They tell me that they've put him in a coma because they needed to wean him off the Vicodin and he wouldn't willingly cooperate. While I can't agree with their methods, I can't argue with their intentions. They tell me that he won't know I'm there, and that it could be a while before he wakes up. I reply that I don't care, and head into his room.

That was five hours ago. In those five hours, my body briefly shut down for a three hour nap about five minutes after I got there, lulled to sleep by the steady beep of Kyle's heart monitor. Ever since I woke up, I've been sitting in this chair, watching him sleep and continuing to think.

I'm watching him sleep, and what I see worries me. He looks at peace overall, but every once in a while his face screws up and he tenses up and gives off little twitches. He looks kinda like Tweek, which is initially amusing, but then I recall why he's twitching. His body is demanding Vicodin, and since the hospital has forced him off it cold turkey, his body can't have it. It inflames the pain, hoping that someone will see and give him the medication out of pity. I have to admit that if I had an M.D., I'd have my scrip pad out and scrawling out a Vicodin order faster than you could blink. I can't stand seeing Kyle like this, I really can't. It hurts me personally to see my best friend having to go through this, and knowing that I'm the cause of it.

I don't remember why I put Kenny's words to me at the restaurant out of my mind when he told me that Kyle was gay for me. I don't know why it took him saying that Kyle wanted to marry me to make me remember. There could be any number of reasons for my repression of this fact, but there are two that stand out as more plausible to me. The first is that the action that immediately followed this revelation forced me to put all other thoughts out of my mind and concentrate on the situation at hand. The second is the Freudian explanation: I repressed the revelation of Kyle's sexuality because it might have sparked my OWN hidden homosexual desires towards HIM. Which is completely and totally ridiculous; I'm straight. I'm straight, I'm engaged to Wendy, Kyle is nothing more than my best friend, who I care for more than I probably should, but our relationship easily explains that.

I find myself reaching for my cell phone and pulling up the pictures of his art and poems that I took earlier and going over them again, just to have something to do. Oh sure, I'll go for lunch soon enough, but I'm still going to spend most of my time until Kyle wakes up on this phone, looking over these paintings.

There's just something about them that makes them eerily interesting. The thought that Kyle sees me as an angel, for one. Anyone who really knows me would know better. I drink, I curse, and I've broken half of the Ten Commandments. Give Ky credit, he hasn't done a real good job keeping track of me, but still…that's his own fault. He kept away from me and tried to forget all about me. The fact that he kept drawing me as the person that would come in and save him had to make him angry beyond all belief. To go through everything he's been through, just to try and forget his first love all because his first love would never love him back in the way that he wanted, and to have it all go to hell almost every time he picked up a paintbrush. Maybe that's how he got addicted to the Vicodin. He'd paint me, put the painting away and take a pill, and forget all about it temporarily. I don't know, but it can't have been just from taking too many for that back injury.

Then there's the poetry, and…that other thing. I strongly suspect it was the book Kenny mentioned. I think I'll go get it when I go to lunch. Maybe reading that will help me take my mind off the art.

-.-

_Five hours later_

I don't think it's working. Kyle must have worked on this book in between paintings and poems. Seriously, some of the paintings could be used as illustrations for points he makes in the pages here, and the poems as in-text examples. It also shoots straight to hell my theory on how he got addicted to the Vicodin. There must be another reason for that, then, but…

I seriously feel sorry for him. The title of the book advertises it as the Philosophy of the Minority, but it reads more of a rant about everything wrong in his life, backed up with statistics and horrific police reports. I'm only on page 56 of about 300, but this book is probably going to give me nightmares for quite a while.

Nurses have been coming in and out of Kyle's room all day to do various things: check his vitals, fluff his pillows, monitor his IVs, so when another nurse walks in I pay her no mind. That is, until she comes over to me and clears her throat impatiently.

"Yes," I reply, still not looking up from the book.

"Coach Marsh, you need to leave. Visiting hours are up," she says, polite but firm.

"Not happening," I reply, still looking at the book. "If I was just visiting, I wouldn't have been here all day."

"Perhaps you didn't hear me," she says. "Visiting hours are OVER, sir."

"I'm not just visiting," I repeat. "I know from personal experience that you'll let people stay overnight with patients."

"Yes, but it's just family. You're not related to Mr. Broflovski."

"I'm close enough to be family," I reply. "Besides, is any of his family here to take you up on that?"

"Well, no," she admits. "But that doesn't change the fact that it's violation of hospital policy." I sigh. Only one way I'm going to get past this…and it's something I really don't want to do.

Standing up, I walk over to a cabinet and give it a strong headbutt to the corner, putting a dent in it and knocking myself to the floor with a vicious cut on my forehead and landing hard on my tailbone.

"Fine," I say. "Now, I've got a head trauma and a bruised tailbone. I'm a patient now, admit me and put me in this room."

The nurse just stares at me strangely. "Have it your way," she says, helping me up and setting me up in the bed next to Kyle's, giving me my book and slapping a bandage on my head before going to do the paperwork.

Grinning at my own cleverness, I return to the book, progressing another ten engrossing pages before falling asleep.

-.-

_Sunday morning_

I wake up with a splitting pain in my forehead. It takes a few moments before I remember why it's there, and why my ass hurts. A quick glance to my left reveals that Kyle's still asleep, and a glance down at my lap reveals that the book is still lying open where I left it.

Picking it up, I start in on it again. It's very well written, and if it weren't for the subject matter would probably be taught in several upper-division Philosophy classes at more than a few universities. Kyle just needs a reason to make it happier. He makes several good points, and articulates them well, but…the examples are too depressing. College students would read this and have nightmares. He'd be richer than hell if he just had a reason to make happy things. He's GOOD at what he does. He's always been good at what he does, whatever he does.

It dawns on me that this is another goal that I have to set for Kyle. I have to make him happy. I have that power within me, and I just have to use it properly, and I'll have a happy, rich Kyle standing by me at the altar.

Now…how the hell am I going to reverse seven years of bad, depressive experiences in less than two months? Something else to ponder while nurses pour aspirin down my throat every couple hours.

Jesus Christ…I need a plan. A damn good one, too. I can come up with one while I wait for him to wake up. Something to make him happy…what does he like? What – besides me naked and tied up to his bed – would make my favorite little Jew happy, like he was the first sixteen years of our lives?

-.-

Sunday has become Monday. I woke up at six to my cell-phone beeping an alarm. Looking over and confirming that Kyle's still unconscious, I call the school.

"_South Park High School, this is Louise_," answers the secretary. God, Louise is still there…I remember that voice calling me in to the principal's office for more than one teenage prank gone wrong…

"Hello, this is Stan Marsh. Neither I nor Mr. Broflovski will be in school today…we're in the hospital," I say. "Could you arrange for substitutes to cover our classes?"

"_Absolutely, Coach_," Louise replies. "_Would you like anything else?_"

"Actually, yes," I say. "Tell Coach Jacobs that I need him to run practice today, would you please?"

"_Certainly. Is there anything else?"_

"Nope," I reply. "I'll let you get back to fielding calls from teens faking the flu to avoid Monday classes, Louise."

"_Charming as ever, Coach. Good-bye_," she says, hanging up. Sighing once again, I go back to looking at Kyle's pictures and pondering what the hell I'm going to say to him when he DOES wake up. I asked a nurse last night, and she said that the doctors think he's ready to come off, so they let the sedatives wear off over the night. He should be waking up soon, I hope.

-.-

_Kyle's POV_

You know, I always thought that when you were sedated by doctors, your entire brain shut down, and that you didn't think or dream at all. Well, this experience has proved that assumption to be complete bullshit.

I'm not very aware of time, but I know that I've been under for a while. I've been doing some thinking, and I've decided that – now that Stan knows – the best thing for me is just to be very upfront with him. Tell him everything; get it off my chest, just like I used to do. Try and act normal.

He's with Wendy, I need to accept that. The last thing he needs when he's trying to be happy is a clingy emoJew like me. I can brood privately about it all I want, that's what alcohol is for. He can have a gay friend…hell, we all thought Kenny was at least bi throughout high school, and Stan never had a problem with that.

Stan's always been an open and accepting person. That's something I've always loved about him, and something I always will love about him. I'll always regard Wendy as an undeserving whore, because I know he's supposed to be MY soul mate, but it's his life and his choice as to who he wants to spend the rest of his life with. We can still talk at school, and hang out at his house to watch football or something on weekends, I'll just have to put up with the bitch, and putting up with bitchy women is something that _I_ have a great deal of experience with.

The haze over my eyes is starting to fade away, and some of my senses are starting to reawaken. I guess the sedatives are wearing off, and it's time for me to wake up. Someone'll probably be around to tell me how long I was out when I open my eyes…hospitals are like that.

With a mental sigh, I slowly open my eyes to face the world.

-.-

Author's Notes: hehe…you know, I'd completely forgotten about the book when I went to plan out this chapter. I'd just mentioned it those few times in part I, and then I wasn't even going to bring it up again until…holy hell, Chapter 13, as a part of the sort-of three-part epilogue.

Anyway, Stan's clever plan was the result of some late-night thinking before I drifted off to sleep last night…I try to think about the chapters I'm going to write in my dreams the night before I write them. It comes up with some pretty good ideas, and this one was too good to pass up.

Please read and review! I want at least six, and I'm giving you until Thursday night/Friday morning to hop to it! Chapter Eight might get a little long again, but it'll be a good kind of long – mostly dialogue, with a few flashbacks to chapter six.

Thanks!

El autor, going to bed in a happy mood…


	8. Chapter 8

Rescue Me-Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

**Summary: Kyle wakes up.**

**Author's Notes: **Guys guys guys guys guys…where are you? I'm looking at my stats page right now, and I only got five reviews for -7. 13 people get emails when I update this. Could all of you be nice and leave a review for me please? I only asked for six, that's not even a majority of the alert folks, plus those who don't have it on alert but just happen across it. Make me a happy panda, please?

Reviews:

Flabz: Yep, PDQ. In fact, within a couple weeks (our time).

Style-xx: Oh, I can sympathize…one thing wrong and this would be a once-a-week updated story. Depressing stories are what you get from depressing outlines, which are what you get from being kinda depressed while writing your outline. Trust me, Part III is rather happy.

Lilchicky004 (ch. 6): Nopes, not freaked…very intrigued, though.

Ren85: Aw, tyvm!

Unworthy: Thank you!

PP Bunny: Aw, get better quickly/sends you chicken soup. I promise the cliffhangers are going to stop soon!

-.-

_Kyle's POV_

_Ohholyfuckinghell!! It hurts it hurts it hurts!_

All over…but especially in my arms. My arms…where I cut them, along the vein. They're also heavily bandaged, from what I can see. I can also see someone out of the corner of my eye in the bed next to mine.

Turning my head to look at him, I realize that it's Stan, and he's looking at something on his cell phone.

"Uuuuuugh," I groan, turning to face him and doing a good job of getting his attention. "What time and day is it?"

"Hey, you're awake!" he says happily, turning to look at me. He's got a bandage on his forehead. I'll ask later, mainly because he's answering my question, "It's 11 AM on Monday."

Monday? I was only out for three days? Cool…

Stan's gone back to looking at his cell. I wonder what's so damn interesting on it. It doesn't look like it's one of the web-accessible ones…

"Whatcha lookin' at?" I ask, sitting up. He doesn't look too happy about that one. His mouth tenses up and he turns back to me.

"Nothing," he says cryptically. That's a blatant lie.

"Seriously, Stan," I reply. "Cell phone backgrounds aren't that engrossing. What're you looking at?" He sighs and swings out of bed, walking over to me and showing me what's on his cell.

It looks very very familiar…it's my art! Some of my paintings, all of them of him…and a few poems. But these weren't the ones I had in my bag; these were in my apartment…

"How did you get these?" I ask. Stan pulls up a chair and indicates that I should get comfortable.

"Kenny told me what you were going to do after you ran out of his restaurant. He told me all about what had happened to you since you moved back, and told me that you would kill yourself because I was marrying Wendy. He actually pushed me out the door and gave me directions to your place," he starts out.

_Flashback_

_Stan's POV_

_It's not exactly a good thing to speed through town in an SUV. They don't have the handling of a sports car. I don't even really know why I drive it; SUVs are for people with big families. I'm not even MARRIED yet._

_When Kenny told me what Kyle would do, I stiffened. He wouldn't. He COULDN'T. There's no way I could get married without Kyle at my side. Kenny's a great friend and all, but…he's not Kyle._

_He's not Kyle._

_So, because Kenny's not Kyle, I'm driving down the main street of South Park at close to 55 miles per hour. Luckily for me, there's not a cop in sight. I have to save Kyle from himself, once again. I've done it before, I'll do it again._

_Now…that's Pioneer that I just passed…I need to take a left on Oregon, one street down…NOW! Jerking the wheel, I have to wonder about the way Kenny gives directions. There's GOT to be a quicker way to get to Kyle's apartment. There HAS to be…_

_Wait!_

_There it is, right in front of me. That beaten up car that represents all of Kyle's changes. He's beaten up, he's scratched, he's bent, he's cracked, he's broken…but he's still going. Not if he gets what he wants, but he's still going._

_Slamming on the breaks and jerking the wheel again, I pull into the space next to his car again, slam the gearshift into Park and turn off the car, jerking the key from the ignition as I fling open the door and run for the stairs._

_Hold on, Kyle, I'm coming!_

_End Flashback_

"I knocked down your door and found you bleeding in your bathroom…stopped the bleeding and brought you here," he says. "Then Kenny came, and we got into an argument, and he reminded me about why you did it…and I ran like hell. I went to my game to try and stop thinking about this, but I couldn't. I was calling entire series at a time, just because my mind was thinking about you, and how you were doing, and what had happened to you."

_Flashback_

_Stan's POV_

_The whistle brings me back to my senses. I really haven't been myself tonight. A quick glance at the scoreboard reveals to me that my Cows just picked up a first down, and are on our opponents 25. We're already up by two touchdowns, and there are only about five minutes left in the game, so I'm allowed a little leeway._

_Grabbing one of the wide receivers, I glance at my play sheet for the red zone offense. I've been calling plays in three at a time, to give myself more time to think._

"_Tell Terry to run Counter Right 5, Buttonhook Left 80, and Draw 22," I say to the receiver, not even bothering to remember who I'm addressing. He nods and trots on to the field as another receiver runs off. I return to my musings._

_Their subject this evening is the man I carried into the ER a little more than three hours ago. Kyle. My best friend, who I just found out is a suicidal, Vicodin-addicted artist who has a boner for me._

_I've been thinking all night about my life with Kyle. All the shit we've been through together, all the shit I've been through with him. Like the time he had that kidney disease, the time he had that hemorrhoid, the time his little brother was about to have his bris, the time Barbara Streisand turned into a huge robot and destroyed the town, the time his bitchy mother started a war with Canada, the times we killed Kenny (We're Bastards!), the time Al Gore tried to trick us into worrying about some strange-ass fantasy animal…you get the point._

_We were practically inseparable from the first time we met. It was Kyle and Stan, and Kenny and Cartman. We were all four friends, of some sort or another, but Kenny and Cartman were friends out of pity (at least on Kenny's part), while Kyle and I had a bond. There wasn't anything we wouldn't do for the other. BFFs, you know the type. The kind that had a bunch of pair pictures on their MySpaces and Facebooks, all of them with a really silly story behind them. Of course, half the time the stories behind the ridiculous pictures on OUR MySpaces and Facebooks were as unbelievable as the pictures themselves. I'd gone over my archived photos and journal entries a few months back, and come across one of Kyle and me at Ike's bar mitzvah, when Cartman had attempted to get the Canadian Air Force to bomb the local synagogue. That was about two months before Fatass had attempted to kill Kyle… _

_End Flashback_

"It was like that all night. Finally, about eleven, I decided the best place to go for answers would be to your apartment. Maybe you'd kept a diary or something that would've let me in on what was up with you. Your landlord had replaced your door, so I had to talk him into giving me the key," Stan says, plunking down the new piece of metal on my bedside table, "and then I got in there, and actually had time to _look_ at everything. I was in there all night, looking at everything. All the paintings, all the drawings and sketches, all the poems…shit, Kyle!" he says. "It's not exactly the kinda stuff you want to read that late at night, y'know?" I can only nod, and not tell him that late at night was when I came up with most of that stuff…

"And then I came here, because I didn't get really anything but more questions from your apartment, and I was here all day Saturday, until they tried to make me leave, so I cut my head open on that cabinet," he says, indicating the offending storage facility, "and made them admit me. I was in here yesterday, reading that book of yours and doing some more thinking. I haven't been home since Friday morning."

At this point, there's a burning question I feel obligated to ask. "Why," I say, in a raspy voice that only comes from lack of use, "do you even give a shit?" He doesn't love me, he's got a girl, there's no reason to spend a weekend with a depressed little suicidal emoJew that wants to take him to bed and do naughty things to him.

Therefore, his response shocks me out of my own self-pity. "Because, dude…you're you. Best friends forever. It'd be wrong to bail on you like that. I don't want to make a mistake like that again. I don't want to lose you again." He looks like he's about to cry. It's like we're nine again, and we've just gone through another one of our many harrowing experiences, and one of us has just made the obligatory "gay little speech" as Cartman always so eloquently put it.

"Just how much did Kenny tell you about my life?" I ask, just so I can know how many times I'm going to have to kill him when I get these bandages off my arms. I should've known better than to trust that little rat with all my secrets…he's still just the same scruffy, poor son of a bitch that he ever was.

"Pretty much everything," he confesses. "But I didn't hear it all from Kenny, Kyle. I saw some of it. Remember what I told you about college? Remember all the emails and text messages I sent you? Well, when those didn't work, I took to kinda-sorta-not really stalking you. I got your class schedule and always, well, at least whenever I could, hung out near your classes when they let out. I hoped you'd see me, and at least think about talking to me. I was worried about what you were becoming, Kyle," he says. "I didn't like seeing you start wearing emo clothes and streak your hair and pop pills every hour. That wasn't the Kyle I knew. The Kyle I knew would've looked for help from his friends. Maybe you should have," he says. "I'm pretty sure we wouldn't be sitting here like this if you had."

"There are some things I couldn't tell even you, Stan," I say, close to tears myself. Damn emotions… "I thought that if I told you I wanted to have my way with you in all different kinds of ways, anytime anyplace you'd throw me out your window and blame it on your roommate." Not exactly the most rational of thought processes, but hey, I am – _was?_ – a drug addict.

Stan gets a chuckle out of this. "Dude, I was friends with Kenny and Butters! If I can hang out with the two of them, flamers that we all thought they were, there's no reason I'd throw you out the window if you told me that. Be a little put off and worried to turn my back on you, yes, but I wouldn't kill you. Now come on, we're taking you home. I still haven't gotten my questions answered yet," he says. "But I fucking hate hospitals."

He helps me out of bed and put back on real clothes. He lets me put on my boxers, but helps me with the shirt and pants buttons. Basically, anything that would make me use my arms. Whoever said suicide is painless needs to be shot in the face.

Oh, Goddamnit, I don't want to be in this position. He's going to make me do something that'll end up making me admit that I DO want to go to his wedding. I don't, I really, really don't. That'll do a better job of killing me than any razor blade ever could, seeing him finally put beyond my reach. Make the pedestal even bigger, so big I'd need fucking mountain climbing gear to get to the top.

Son of a bitch.

-.-

See, now that wasn't so bad! Not the best, but not bad either. I didn't put a lot of thought into this really, and it should've been a lot shorter, but this one and chapter nine set up the big cliffy between Parts II and III. Next chapter should be out Sunday, and will feature a scene in Kyle's apartment, along with Art-Talk.

Now review, Goddamnit! I want to see your comments!

El autor-drained, tired, and GOING TO FUCKING BED!


	9. Chapter 9

Rescue Me-Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Still not mine!**

**Summary: Stan takes Kyle home.**

**Author's Notes: **Well…this is another chapter that's really only there because it has to be. Not a lot is going to happen, and really you can probably get by without reading this and wait for the Special update that's coming on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, because Chapter 10 has something Valentine's-related in it! In addition to having plenty of things relevant to the plot, of course. Then again, some of the stuff that happens in this chapter will be referenced in later chapters, so…meh. Read at the cost of your own time!

Reviews: Are improving in number! XD Pretty soon this'll be my new most-reviewed! Hell, probably with this chapter…I only need seven!

Flabz: Ooh…you'll like Tuesday and Thursday then, XD

Lumina Lin: Yep, Kyle is really up shit creek without a paddle, inne? It seriously only gets better.

Ren 85: Heh…I really only did that to boost word count. Without those rips, the content of that chapter and the disclaimer/summary/author's notes at the top would've probably been equal on a word-count term. Plus, I didn't want to do an entire chapter of Stan talking…that's TOO much dialogue.

Lilchicky 004 (ch. 7): Don't we all?

Lilchicky 004 (ch. 8): Hehe…sure he can! Just not in this chapter…:\

PP Bunny: Sorry? Bah on colds and lethargy, I totally sympathize.

Rein: Thanks, and OK.

Unworthy: Erm…less interchangeable, more could've been done in the same chapter, I think. I'm not trying to cram in perspective, you'll notice that most of chapters 6-10 are supposed to be Stan's POV, just like most of chapters 1-5 were Kyle's POV. It's the way it's set up. The premise should be on my profile, if not, I'll add it up there.

-.-

_Stan's POV_

I'm holding Kyle by the shoulder and practically dragging him through the hallways of Hell's Pass, looking for a doctor to tell us we can leave. Of course, this being South Park, Colorado and Hell's Pass Hospital, there isn't one in sight. Nor has there been for the past half-hour.

"Goddamnit," I mutter, checking the assignment board for the third time in the past thirty minutes, "There are five doctors on duty here, where the fuck are they?"

"Erm…I don't think we've checked the cafeteria out yet," Kyle says.

"Brilliant! It's gotta be the only place we haven't looked anyway, let's go!" I say, manhandling him in the appropriate direction. It's a five minute walk, and he's rather unhappy that I won't let _GO_ of him, but we finally make it to the cafeteria to find, lo and behold, all five on-duty doctors sitting at a table laughing their asses off about something or other.

"Excuse me!" I say, walking over to their table. "Would one of you mind looking us over quickly and signing release papers?" They all look at each other confusedly. Sighing, I haul one up by his lab coat and make him examine our injuries. Which he does…slowly and methodically. Then he starts talking and I swear to god he's related to Mr. Mackey.

"M'kay, gentlemen, now you've both got sutures in your cuts. This means, M'kay, that you have to keep those bandages on your arms-" he says, before being interrupted.

"Yes, we know to keep the bandages on for two weeks, and then come in every other week to check up on the stitches, which will be removed in four to six weeks. Drink plenty of fluids and get plenty of rest, don't drink and drive and stay off the drugs, we know, just sign the damn papers!" Kyle says. I can't be any prouder of him. It's bad enough we're in the hospital to start, but now we're where the hospital "food" is made. I give an involuntary shudder as the doctor scratches out lines on our release documents. When he gives them back, I make tracks for the door, and the reception desk, where I turn the papers over and make for the exit, Kyle still in tow.

"Now…where did I park?" I ask myself, digging my keys out of my pocket and looking around. Kyle tugs on my sleeve and points out the location of my car. Orienting myself in that direction, I help him up into the passenger seat and myself in the driver's seat, start the car and head for his apartment again.

When we get there, I let him unlock the door before briskly pushing past him into the apartment and heading for his bathroom. I spend the next few minutes gathering up all the pill bottles and razor blades and putting them into a Ziploc bag, before walking to the window and, in front of an amazed Kyle, throwing the Vicodin and razor blades down into the snow. I'll be sure to run over them when I leave.

"Did I miss any?" I ask him. All he can do is stare at me. I think I shocked him.

"Kyle!" I shout, shocking him back to his senses. "Did. I. Miss. Any?"

"N-n-n-no…" he says. "I'm pretty sure that's everything…"

"Good," I say. "I left you some aspirin, so if you have some really BAD pain in your arms, take a couple of those. Now…let's talk." I move him over to his couch and sit down beside him.

"I want you to tell me about some of this stuff," I say, gesturing about the room to the paintings stacked against the wall, some of the ones hanging on the wall, the sketchbooks, and some of the sheets of poetry lying about. Kyle looks at me quizzically. I'm just a football coach, what the fuck do I know about art?

"C'mon, Kyle, I know your basic style, but most of this is a lot different from the ones you made that I have hanging in my private office room at home," I whine, trying to MAKE him talk to me.

"What do you mean, the ones I made that you have hanging in your private office room at home?" he asks. "I never even talked to you in the five years before Friday; much less sold you any art."

"That's because I didn't buy it directly from you, douche," I joke. "I got it whenever the Art Department had an art sale. Surely you noticed that at least one of your pieces was always gone…"

"That was YOU?" he asks.

"Dude, no offense, but who the hell else would? It's scary, and a little creepy, but it was something that I thought would help me feel closer to you. Maybe you'd even see me buy one and talk to me. That never happened, and it scared the fuck out of my roommates, but…this way I wasn't completely letting go of you," I say, and it seems to strike a chord with Kyle.

"So…you say you know my style, eh?" he asks.

"Well, as far as the themes and color schemes, yeah. I'm not an art appraiser, but I took a couple art appreciation classes so I could, well, appreciate the stuff I had on my walls," I reply.

"What interests you the most?" he asks, honestly and enthusiastically, "about this one?" Suddenly his face is hidden behind a canvas. That's one of the ones with me as an angel…crying over a broken Kyle. I'm on one knee, and his body's draped across my other leg…there's blood coming from various wounds – including two cuts on his wrists – and I'm crying into the Jewfro.

"Well…" I say, drawing it out and making him pull the canvas away from his face, positioning it on the couch between us. I take his hand and use it as a pointer.

"The idea that you see me as your savior is always interesting, no matter how many times I see it," I say. "It's one of those motifs in each of the ones I bought." Kyle's nodding, and looks like he wants to interject something. So, I pause and let him.

"Well…it's because I do. It's one of those really weird and ironically apathetic things. I wanted you to stop me from ruining myself, you wanted to stop me from ruining myself, but we just couldn't communicate that to each other…something got lost. You're just so damn…perfect. Forgive me for going all retro-50s on you, but…" Kyle said. I looked at him funny before he broke out in song. "'You're the one that I want! Oo-oo-oo, honey, the one that I want! Oo-oo-oo, you're what I neeeeeeeeeeed! Oh yes indeeeeeed! You're the one that I want!'" All I can do is stare. Who couldn't? I'm going to be scarred for life…must come up with a witty retort! Must!

"Something tells me you would look weird in a pink poodle skirt," I reply. My inner self smacks his forehead. Kyle glares at me. I continue on, "Besides, Kyle, I'm _NOT_ perfect. Far from it. I drink, I swear, I take the Lord's name in vain, I dishonor my father and mother, I don't always remember or keep holy the Sabbath, I bear false witness, I covet my neighbor's goods…need I go on? I'm flattered of course, but…you've got your perceptions of me all wrong, buddy."

"You don't have to be _JESUS_ perfect," he scowls. "You're perfect to me the way you are, with the drinking and the swearing and the blasphemy and the dishonor and the forgetfulness and the lying and the greed…if you'd just drink with me, swear about me, blaspheme about me, dishonor your parents with me, forget the Sabbath with me, lie with me, and give into my greed for you."

"Lie as in not tell the truth or lay as in bed?" I ask.

"Both?" he replies.

"Down, Kenny!" I joke back, returning to the picture and pointing to him. "You got one thing right, though. I'm no angel, but if you'd succeeded in killing yourself, I would've been cradling your broken body and crying like there was no tomorrow. Remember what I said when you tried that shit back in high school?"

"That you'd kill Kenny every day so he could yell at me for you?" he replies.

"Damn straight! I wasn't kidding. You couldn't DO that to me, dude! It'd be like breaking up Kirk and Spock, or Harry and Ron, or Batman and Robin! Where would one of those guys be without the other, huh?" I ask him. He's looking at me bemusedly, and I have no idea why.

"But Goddamnit, I was trying to do it so you WOULDN'T have to worry about me anymore. You wouldn't have to worry about me wanting to screw you senseless, and you wouldn't have to worry about me hurting myself either, because I couldn't. You could just live out your life with your nice little wife in this shithole mountain town or wherever the fuck you wanted to live," he explains, and this time it's I who wears the bemused grin, because of his rhyming.

"But I would still be worrying, dude. It's like that song by the Fray…that 'How to Save a Life' song…I'd have spent the rest of my life wondering if there was anything I could have done to stop you."

"Well yeah," he replies. "You COULD have, ideally, been gay for me in return and spent long nights making sweet love to me down by the fire." I'm frowning. I don't want to hear Kyle's gay fantasies for me…especially not punctuated with memories of Chef. I need an interruption, something, anything!

As if by divine intervention, my cell phone starts ringing. As soon as I hear the tone, though (And I-I-I-I-I-I will always looooooove you), my thought process turns from divine intervention to satanic intervention. This won't be good. That's Wendy's ringtone…and I haven't been home since Thursday night. No, this will not be good at all.

Sighing and glancing at Kyle, I flip open the phone and answer it.

"Hello?"

" **_WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!?!_**"

-.-

Author's notes: Heh…if you're wondering, I went with Kirk/Spock, Harry/Ron, and Batman/Robin because they're also slashed and shipped by a great many people…so that's what got Kyle all so weird, that Stan would mention breaking apart three twosomes that so many picture as gay couples.

Apologies for the cliffy, but I promise to make up for it on Tuesday/Wednesday! And, while we're at it…you lot need to see something in my latest journal entry on my dA account. Link is in my profile.

Please read and review!

El autor

I fucking hate Mondays!


	10. Chapter 10

Rescue Me-Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Is still here and in effect. Rumors of its death or expiration have been greatly exaggerated.**

**Summary: The End of Part II. Everything comes to a head…somewhat literally.**

**Author's Notes: **Well OK, the reviews for nine weren't what I hoped for…but there are several reasonable explanations. One is the two-day turnaround between chapters here, so naturally, the reviewing TIME has been sliced in half. Two…have you looked at the SP page lately? A lot of new postings recently…so many that this story has been pushed down to sixteen. Three-well…nine sucked. So, to make it up for you…here is the chapter in which everything that we've been building up to over the past few weeks comes to a head.

Reviews:

Flabz: Yep…and Kyle can think of a couple ways to utilize that new asshole Stan's gonna get ripped XD!

Zakuyoe: Erm…I think 25? I don't know…that really confused me. You are, indeed, on a oneshot roll! Thanks for the review and the fic!

Lilchicky004: Quite the opposite, actually. It only SEEMS like she's going to screw things over hardcore…and she will…for herself!

PPBunny: Get better! Remember the cure: Chicken soup and 7-up!

-.-

"**_WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!?!_**" I hear in my ear. Wendy Marie Testaburger, my fiancée, is screaming her inquiry regarding my whereabouts in my left ear. Cringing, I yank the phone away.

"_I'm not fucking kidding, Stanley Marsh, I think I deserve to know where the hell my husband-to-be is and why he hasn't been home since Friday morning!_" she continues. I sigh. She won't stop until I answer, so…

"You're not going to want to hear this," I say.

"_Yes I am!_" she shrieks, "_Now where the hell have you been and what have you been doing?_"

"Friday morning, after practice, I found out that Kyle – you remember Kyle, right? – is teaching art at the High School. So we decided to go for a cup of coffee after school to catch up with each other, and then I found out that Kenny – the poor kid, remember? – runs a diner on the outskirts of town," I begin, pausing for a breath before continuing, " then we started talking, and I told him I was engaged to you, and he freaked out and left, and then Kenny told me he was going to kill himself because he's gay for me, so I went and chased after him. I got to his apartment just after he'd made the cuts, so I took him to the hospital, and then I got into an argument with Kenny, and then I went to the game, and then I went back to Kyle's apartment to look for answers.

"At his apartment, I found that he has a lot of that art that I have in my office that you don't really like…some 345 all told, but only 285 of them have me in them, and only about 140 of those have me as an angel, and the rest have me crying over a dying body. And the poetry…you read Poe, right? You read Emily Dickinson? This is worse. They're about me too. And then there's the book…oh Jesus the book. It's a 300 page rant about how minorities get fucked over by society. It's got a point, but…it's like some sort of explanation for the art and the poetry. But after reading all this, I decided that I needed to talk to Kyle about it, so I went back to the hospital, only to find out that they'd put him in a coma so his body could work off its Vicodin addiction – did I not mention that already? Kyle was a Vicodin addict, up until very recently, so the doctors put him in a coma. So I decided to wait with him until he woke up," I continue, pausing once again for breath.

"Anyway, this puts us up through Saturday evening, when they wanted me to leave Kyle's room, but I didn't want to and they wouldn't let me claim myself as family, so I cut my head open on a cabinet and got admitted to the hospital myself…and I spent all Sunday waiting for him to wake up, and they finally started letting up on the meds last night, so he woke up at about eleven this morning, then we got out of the hospital and came back to his apartment, and we started talking, and that's where we are now. Did you get all that? Do I need to go over anything?" I ask.

"…" I hear on the other end. "_Waitaminute…Kyle's GAY? Seriously?_" Of all the things in that narrative to question me about, she picks THAT? Jesus Christ her mind works in a strange way…

"Yeah, pretty seriously. Suicide's not something you try for fun. He said he wanted me to not have to worry about him, his addictions, his condition."

"_So? Why didn't you just let him? I don't want you hanging around with drug-addicted emo fags, Stanley_." Ouch…I'm actually stung by that remark.

"Wendy, maybe you don't quite understand. Kyle's my best friend. Best friends don't let best friends kill each other, no matter what the reason. I let him go before, but I'll be damned if I turn my back on him again. And don't call Kyle an emo fag. He's gay, yeah, but he's not a fag."

"_Stanley_." Again with the sickeningly sweet voice. "_Are you going to seriously contend that a childhood friendship is more important than your relationship with the woman you're going to marry?_"

"We're not married yet, Wendy. You don't control my life yet. I still have a little choice over who I want to talk to and spend time with. I can't have this wedding without Kyle, anyway. He's the best friend I ever had. Kenny's a poor man-whore, and Cartman…well, I don't see them issuing him a day pass for his mother's funeral, much less an old friend's wedding," I bite back.

"_Oh sweetie, I didn't mean it like that. Of course you want Kyle to be your best man, I completely understand that, but…doesn't it make you a bit uneasy, that the man you're supposed to be so close to actually wants to be at the wedding, but only in my spot?_" Trying to trick me into homophobia. That's never going to work on me…I'm way too tolerant. I lean forward, rubbing my temple with my spare hand, to give my reply.

"Not gonna work, Wendy," I say. "I didn't go through that Death Camp of Tolerance for nothing you know. I hung out with Kenny and Butters all through High School. The whole damn school thought they were gay. Turns out we were wrong about Kenny, but I don't think Butters surprised too many people when he came out of the closet. Do you remember what I said about it?"

"_Of course I don't. It was five years ago, Stanley!_" So much for women having memories that last forever.

"I told him that it was OK if he was gay, I didn't care one way or the other. Hell, even back in third grade when my dog ran away to Big Gay Al's Animal Sanctuary and I told everyone that it's OK to be gay…I'm not really concerned about it, Wendy." I'm up off the couch and pacing around the rug in front of the TV.

"_OK, let me phrase it this way, Stan. Me or Kyle. You can't have both. Not anymore._"

"Wendy," I plead, "don't make me do this! I can't choose between you or Kyle! Don't make me, you'll ruin everything!" Kyle is looking at me very interestingly, and appears to be straining to listen in. Not that it'll be too hard, Wendy's practically screaming.

"_Stanley, if you really love me, there ISN'T a choice._" Oh, son of a bitch. "_In fact, I would go so far as to say that you absolutely must choose me. If you want to cure Kyle's addictions, if you really CARE about him, you have to take away the substances he's addicted to._"

"I already took CARE of the Vicodin, Wendy!" I hiss back. "He's not going to get his hands on anymore of it. You should try being a little more supportive of me and my friends. I helped you when some of your girlfriends had issues, why can't you be a little understanding when some of my friends have a problem? Jesus Christ, you're worse than Kyle's mom, and I think everyone in the world concedes that she's the biggest bitch in the whole world.

"Wendy, I love you. I love you like it's going out of style. I think, however, that you're being a little hypocritical and condescending here. You're trying to dictate to me, and I might have let your run all over me when we were little, because I would do ANYTHING for you, but I do possess a spine. I'm capable of standing up for what I believe is right too. I'm going to help Kyle, whether you like it or not."

"_That's just the thing, Stan,_" she says. "_I said substances, plural. It's not just the Vicodin. Kyle is a Stan-addict. You have to remove YOURSELF from his life to cure him._"

"That is the dumbest thing you've ever said," I reply. "I removed myself from his life once before. It was called college, and it led to this entire problem. I can't, in good conscience, do that."

"_Well then, I guess I can't, in good conscience, marry someone that won't listen to reason!_"

"Fine, break up with me!" I shout. "I don't need a dominatrix bitch for a wife anyway!"

"_Screw you, Stan, I'm going home!_"

"Go home then, bitch! And never call me again! I'm serious!" I shout, and I hang up, looking around for Kyle. He's not on the couch anymore, he's…

Right in my face.

And now, he's moving closer.

And now, he's kissing me.

Oh God, he's kissing me. Oh God, Oh God, Oh GOD!

-.-

Author's Notes: Yeah, it's not that long either. But I like it…it's a rather nice cliffhanger if I do say so myself. Tune in Thursday night/Friday morning for the resolution, same Style time, same Style channel!

Don't forget to review, either!

El autor


	11. Chapter 11

Rescue Me-Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Is here.**

**Summary: Kyle has just kissed Stan. What happens next?**

**Author's Notes: **Whoohoo and turrah! This is my most reviewed story! Yay and hurrah! Now, to find out the answer to the big question on all of your minds: Will Stan push Kyle away?

Reviews:

Flabz: You are AWESOME! Yep…put in the kissy! My contribution to Valentine's Day Fever XD

Tako: You are AWESOME! Erm…a good way how?

Cammy: You are AWESOME! Heh…account-getting is encouraged! As is coming back and leaving those other reviews (.). Hurrah for fan-having. There's a lot of great stuff of emoKyle on deviantART, if you want to check that out…

EvanNJames: You are AWESOME! Well…I just did, XD.

Ren85: You are AWESOME! Thou shalt have to waitest and see!

PP Bunny: You are AWESOME! Actually, I DO happen to know that Wendy is, in fact, gone. She's very strong in her convictions, that woman. Hope you get better soon…102.5 is far better used in context of a radio station than a fever temperature…

Unworthy: You are AWESOME! Ooh, props, I'll take some! Heh…I think that was the last chapter with a real cliffhanger…all of Part III can be self-contained chapters without any unresolved plots hanging at the end.

Lumina Lin: You are AWESOME! O.o…I'll try to answer those questions rather quickly here!

-.-

_Stan's POV_

He's kissing me, oh God, oh God, Kyle's KISSING ME! KYLE'S _KISSING_ **ME**. Wait a second…

I pull back, interrupting this little thought process quite quickly. He tumbles quite cutely face-first into the couch. I'm not thirty seconds removed from an _engagement_, of all things, and Kyle's already trying to suck face with me. I've got a few questions about this…

"Erm, Kyle?" I ask, once he's pulled his face out of the couch cushions and is sitting properly on it again. "The fuck was that for?"

"What, you're still not making the connections here?" he asks, somewhat snidely. "I know Kenny would have told you about what I think about your engagement to that stupid bitch. Something along the lines of calling her an undeserving whore, if my thoughts are serving me right. Actually, I think they're right on the money. I don't keep a diary on paper, Stan, that's way too juvenile. But I have one in my mind, and there are endless entries that make reference to you stopping your pursuit of that undeserving whore, and doing those kinds of things to the person you're meant to be with – me."

"Kenny told me you wanted me to be marrying you, yeah," I say. "But I missed hearing you call her an undeserving whore. I'll give you that she's controlling and manipulative, but she deserves SOMEBODY, Kyle. Everybody deserves somebody."

"Then, why the hell can't I have you?" he asks. "Of all the people in the world, who honestly deserves you more than me? Ask yourself that, Stan. I'll wait."

Something deep inside me tells me that he's right. I should know he's right. There are some things that we've done together that go past even super-best-friend stage. Who else do you knock yourself out for to stay with them in the hospital? A person you love. Who else do you threaten to kill someone else for just to be able to talk to them if they died? A person you love, that's who. All the things we've been together set up perfectly for this. All the fates, karma, whatever the hell you want to call it, is pointing directly at those lips on that face.

Kyle's words also tell me something about Kyle himself. He's right about that too…he does deserve somebody. He's saved himself quite well for his true love. He knows who and what he wants, and what he's supposed to have. As illogical as it sounds, I, Stanley Marsh, the Alpha Dog, am supposed to be in a homosexual relationship with Kyle Broflovski, who is about as far removed as you can get from Alpha Male status. Kyle and I have always been there for each other, and whenever we're not, something bad happens.

Like the time Kenny and I went off to California to try and get our money back from Mel Gibson for "The Passion." I left for a while, and Cartman gets the whole town together to try and kill Kyle and the Jews.

Hell, there are just as many times when I stayed in town and bad shit still happened. Like the time Kyle's brother got abducted by aliens, and the only way to get him back was to try Cartman to a tree and make him fart fire. Or the time Kyle needed a kidney transplant from Fatass, or the time Fatass got an amusement park and Kyle got a hemorrhoid. Can't forget the time we got all our parents incarcerated for child molestation, or the time we all – except Kyle – went through that metrosexual fad. Then there's the whole thing with the egg…God, if that doesn't make it blatantly obvious out of all the things we've been through, I don't think anything will.

I like Kyle Broflovski in a non-super-best-friends way. No…I LOVE Kyle Broflovski in a non-super-best-friends way. If I didn't, why the fuck did I spend all that time at college stalking him, trying to get him to talk to me. Why'd I do things I thought would get him to notice me? Because I was worried about him? You don't worry that much about a person you're just friends with. Maybe I was just in denial about it all. I'm sure I had plenty of good rationalizations for it back then, but they're all escaping me right now.

I love Kyle.

Well…then I guess I know what I have to do then.

Kyle is still sitting on the couch. He's staring at his feet, and he's probably either crying or cursing himself for fucking up any chance he thought he ever had with me. I've got to admit, he probably could have waited a while. It's not exactly kosher (ha ha, good one Stanley) to start a make-out session with someone less than a minute after they've broken up with their fiancée.

Moving over to the couch, I slowly reach out and lift his chin up with my hand. I want to do this right, but not too sappy. He has been crying, I notice as I see the tear streaks running down his cheeks. Reaching up with my thumb, I wipe away the tears on one cheek, and the other.

"St-Stan…" he says, uncertainty and fear creeping into his voice. "Wh-What're you doing?" It's as good a cue as any I guess. I lean in myself and catch my love in a sweet kiss on the lips that makes him catch his breath. I slide my other arm up around his back and draw him closer to me, deepening the kiss and probing his lips with my tongue, seeking access, but it's denied. Kyle seems satisfied for the moment with English kissing. Finally, he breaks the kiss and pulls back.

"Damn, you're good," he says, and I smile. "Does this mean what I think it means?" he asks, and I nod.

"I love you, Kyle," I say. "I don't know what's kept me from seeing it before, but I see it now and I'm acting on it. I don't want to lose you again. You're too important to me. What other person would I trick Fatass into giving up a kidney for? Who else would I have by my side when challenging the President on the government's role in 9/11? What other boy would I be egg daddies with?" He's definitely got a smile on his face. That's a fond memory for both of us, apparently.

Something absolutely beautiful enters my head completely unbidden. It doesn't seem like too bad an idea either. I open my mouth and start spouting lines softly, almost in a whisper, barely audible.

"_The darkness surrounds, the torture abounds_," I whisper. "_Every hour, it's not fair, my body cries out in despair._" Kyle freezes. He knows it's his; he's just trying to remember it himself.

"_There's only one thing that I'm needing,_" he says, "_To make me stop this spiritual bleeding._"

"_Ever since he left my life, I've experienced naught but strife,_" I continue. "_Should I come near him again,_"

"_I strongly feel my fear would win_," Kyle picks up. "_And send me fleeing from his arms, the only place I'm ever warm._"

"_Oh heart, oh heart, why oh why must you impart,_" we both say in unison, "_Such terrible fear upon my soul, for without him – _" a pause to look each other in the eye, "_I am not whole._"

"Stan…that's beautiful," Kyle says, apparently glossing over the fact that they're his words to begin with. I can't deny they fit the situation perfectly though…I wouldn't be me without Kyle.

"Thank yourself, it's your poem," I say.

"You're not going to abandon me again?" he asks.

"Never," I say. "I'll be here fore you whenever you need me. If you think you can't do something, call me and I'll be here as fast as my car will take me. If you feel you need more Vicodin, call me and I'll give you kisses that will make you forget your own name, much less any drug desires. If you have any problems with insolent little artistes, I'm right next door, and know most of them personally." I rise and head for the door.

"Where're you going?" Kyle asks. At first, I think it's a stupid question.

"Home," I answer. Then the reason strikes me…it probably wouldn't be best to go home until I'm sure Wendy is gone. She's likely to kill me for breaking up with her…and telling her I've hooked up with Kyle the "emo fag" probably wouldn't help matters any.

Apparently this stricken look has made it to my face, because Kyle gets up and says, with no small degree of a smirk, "It's alright, Stan. You can stay the night here. Just don't expect me to put out on the first night. Do I have any food?"

-.-

Erm…yeah, that's it! Turned out pretty nice, I think, even if it's STILL not above 2000 words... Plenty of throwbacks and allusions, but most of them are mainstream enough for even a casual fan (which I doubt any of you are!) to know what the hell Stan's talking about.

And, in other news…my keyboard has decided to be dumb and not produce quotation marks unless I hit another key afterwards…stupid thing.

Anyways, please read and review! It makes me happy, and I think you have plenty of reason to make me happy now!

El autor


	12. Chapter 12

Rescue Me-Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Still works**

**Summary: Now that they're together, what's gonna happen for Stan and Kyle?**

**Author's Notes:** This story just continues to make me happy. And not just happy, happy with myself! Which is all kinds of good, even if I am listening to the whole "The Black Parade" album at least once a day. There's a scene at the end of this chapter that I might be extending and posting to my deviantART account, so…check there tomorrow to see if I did :P You'll need a dA account to see it, but…it'll be there if I do it.

Reviews:

Flabz: Thank you, thank you! Wendy is a bitch, yes she's such a dirty bitch!

Lumina Lin: emo conversations? Emo friends? And THIS is the cure? Whoa…/feels seventeen different kinds of special. Oh yeah…here's a new string to tie around your finger!

EvanNJames: art? Whoo! Yes, I can picture it in my mind…just not on paper :( I have no art skills…

PP. Bunny: M'kay! You feeling any better?

Unworthy: Yay, I am a cure! You're welcome/adds another kind of special to the celebration list.

Zakuyoe: Hello! Heh…he's in shock, what can I say? XD

Ren85: Yep, eternal love of the Style variety for the win!

Lilchicky004 (ch10): Hurrah for happiness of the Panda variety!

Lilchicky004 (ch11): I think it was more the bitch dumped Stan, he just agreed that it was a good idea, but yes, still good! Hoorays all around!

-.-

_Stan's POV_

I wake up the next morning to Kyle cleaning up his apartment…at six-thirty in the morning. Grunting and swinging my legs up off the couch, I try to ask him what he was doing, but it comes out as a sort of "Whazzadjoekalye?" He looks at me funny, which indicates to me that I had not, actually, asked "What are you doing, Kyle?"

To that end, I open my mouth and try again. "What are you doing, Kyle?" There.

"Oh! I'm cleaning," he explains, thinking that this solves everything and I've been mysteriously enlightened. I haven't.

"…Why?"

"Because, cleaning is just one way of releasing all the energy that I would be suppressing if I was taking my drugs. Since I'm not, I have all this extra energy, and I have to do something with it. I guess I never noticed how filthy this place is," he says. I'm gawking at him. He makes a very good point. "Oh, and breakfast is on the table," he adds, returning to dusting some odd sculpture on the coffee table.

"How long have you been up?" I ask, folding the blanket and putting it on one of the cushions.

"Since four or so."

"Since FOUR!?! You'd damn well better not always wake up that early," I reply, heading for the bathroom to do my business.

"Well, no, not always," he says sheepishly, "but I couldn't sleep. Too much energy."

"We need to find you a hobby."

-.-

An hour later, we're at school. I convinced him that it would be easier for him to ride with me until we got his stitches taken out. He was worried about what not being used for a month and a half would do to his car, but I negated that one by saying that we could switch off cars. Besides, his little compact would be better for the environment than my huge gas-guzzler.

"Now remember, if you need something, just knock," I say, heading into my office while he unlocks his room. I find two notes waiting for me, one from my substitute from yesterday, and the other from Coach Jacobs telling me what had been accomplished at practice yesterday. I noted that he'd just gone over film from last week's game, and shown them some of who we'd be facing this week. Which was normal for Monday, or really any time the coach was gone, and we hadn't really lost any time. So good.

I've got a first period class, so I head upstairs to refill my coffee cup and then come back to find Kyle already out in the hall supervising the migrations. Giving him my winning grin, I unlock the locker room proper and prop it open, allowing some of the freshman boys to get in and start changing.

-.-

We do lunch together. The school gives them an hour open for lunch everyday, and Kyle and I decide to start eating out. It'll be a welcome relief for both of us – Kyle rarely eats much more than an apple or something for lunch, and I loathe cafeteria food.

Naturally, we head to Kenny's. It's relatively cheap, and we know the owner, so it's even cheaper, and we have someone to talk to occasionally. Kenny's usually busy, but sometimes he comes out to talk with us. He's the first person we told about what had happened over the weekend. The conversation went something like

"Hey you guys, what're you doing here? Don't you have school?"

"Nah, it's lunch time," Kyle says. "We decided to drop by…don't like what's being offered in the cafeteria today."

"You never did this before," Kenny replies, getting suspicious. "Seriously, what's up?"

"Nothing, really," I say. "Can we order already?"

"Not until you tell me what happened this weekend and why Kyle's all cheery," he says. Apparently this is a radical mood shift for my little red-haired love.

"Actually, Kenny," he says, "you're going to want to let us order first. There's a line behind us, but we'll tell you all about it when you get a chance to come talk." Bowing to reason, Kenny relents and lets us order. Kyle takes a Caesar salad. I have a Kenny-burger with a side of (with a grin) waffle fries. I get the hint there's an in-joke somewhere there.

We find a booth and squeeze in, and someone brings us our food. About fifteen minutes in, Kenny finds the opportunity and drops in across from us.

"So, what happened?" he says. "And why're you two sitting next to each other like that?" He looks utterly baffled. I can't really blame him…I didn't exactly give him the best of impressions regarding my feelings towards Kyle the last time I saw him.

"Well, after you told me everything about Kyle at the hospital," I say, "I headed to the game. I spent most of it thinking about Kyle, and what he meant to me, after which I headed over to his apartment and spent the night going through all his paintings and poetry, looking for answers for all the questions I had. Then I took his book and headed to the hospital, where I spent the weekend after splitting my head open on a cupboard. I read the book, and when he woke up on Monday, I took him home, and started talking to him about his art. You follow?" I ask. Kenny nods, and motions for me to continue.

"So then, Wendy calls, and she and I got into an argument over me getting involved with Kyle's life again. She tried to make me choose between her and Kyle, saying that he was addicted to me and to get over it I would have to get out of his life. I told her that was the stupidest thing she ever said, that I couldn't in good conscience do it, and we broke up, then Kyle kissed me, and he asked me a pretty damn good question about who deserves me, and I came to an earth-shattering conclusion: We're supposed to be gay **_TOGETHER_**." Kenny's staring at me.

"Waitaminute, waitaminute, back up. You're saying you've broken off your engagement and decided to be with Kyle?" he says. We both nod.

"Well, I'll be damned. Well, that does a pretty damn good job of explaining why he's so happy," he says.

"That, and we're working him off the Vicodin. He's got a lot more energy naturally now, because he's not suppressing it," I say. Kenny nods.

"Makes sense. Although, I can think of a few ways for you to use it…" Kyle chucks an ice cube at him.

"Kenny God damnit, we haven't been together a full day, and already you want us to start fucking each other."

"Hey, if I were gay, **_I_**'d tap that," he says, before retreating from a barrage of plastic utensils. While Kyle contemplates how he's going to finish his salad without a fork, I check my watch.

"Kyle, we need to be getting back," I say, tossing my food remains into the trash. Sighing, he follows suit. It was only a few bits of lettuce covered in way too much dressing anyway; I can't see what he was so worried about…

-.-

After school that day, I let Kyle grade some projects while I coach practice. We don't need a lot of work; I've inherited a pretty damn good team. We could probably win state, unless something really bad happens to gum up the works.

After practice, I pick him up and drive him back to his apartment, pausing for a few quick kisses in the car before he gets out and I head home.

When I walk in the door of my house for the first time in five days, I notice a ring box sitting on top of a note. Inside the box is my engagement ring from Wendy, and the note tells me in no uncertain terms where I can go and what I can do to myself when I get there. Shrugging, I toss the note in the garbage, put the ring in my desk, and head into the kitchen to make myself something to eat.

-.-

Our lives follow roughly this same pattern for the next three months. Every morning, I'll get up and drive over to Kyle's apartment in my SUV, where we take his Geo to school. At lunch, we go to Kenny's. After school, we head back to Kyle's in the Geo, make out for a while, before I drive home in my SUV.

I've also had a little secret project going for the past few months. I've spent a lot of time and effort on it, and I think it'll really pay off.

Today we went to the doctor for a final check-up on both how our injuries have healed, and how Kyle's rehab is coming along. The stitches came out a month and a half ago, but Kyle decided he liked driving to school with me better than coming separately.

"M'kay, guys, here's the deal," the doctor (the same annoying Mackey-clone that signed our release papers that day) says. "You're both fit as fiddles, m'kay, and I don't want to have to see either of you in here again, m'kay, unless it's for something like a cold. M'kay?"

"Yes, sir," we both automatically reply, upon which he dismisses us.

Instead of taking the normal route back to Kyle's place, I'm following a completely different route.

"Erm, Stan?" Kyle asks. "Where're we going?" A valid question, and one I cryptically answer.

"You'll see," I say, with a devilish twinkle in my eye. Kyle is intrigued. All the moreso when we pull up in front of my house. He's seen it a couple times when I forgot something in the morning and we have to double back, but he's never been INSIDE. Concurrently, when I come across the car and open his door, he's speechless.

I lead him inside, and lead him upstairs, to a couple of empty rooms. They're supposed to be bedrooms, but I don't have much use for four bedrooms, really. This has been my special project.

Inside the first room, I show him something he's quite shocked to see…all the art from his old apartment, hanging on the walls, with the poetry in large binders on a table. I went over there during lunch today while Kyle was at a meeting and moved it. I tell him this, and he looks at me confused as I guide him to the second room, which has received the bulk of my attention.

It's an art studio, or at least what I think one should look like. There's an easel, about fifty fresh canvases, paints, brushes, other art supplies. Kyle is positively gushing. I know there's no way he'll say no to what I have to say next.

"Stan!!" he exclaims. "Oh my God, why'd you do all this?"

"Because, Kyle, I want to ask you something."

"What?"

"Will you move in with me?"

"Live with you? Here?" he asks. I nod, twice. He positively squeals with delight.

"Of course I would!! Have I told you how much I love you lately?" I smile.

"Nope…" This, of course, leads to a night-long makeout session. We can get the rest of his stuff over the weekend.

-.-

The next day at Kenny's we apprise our friend of the new development in our relationship. He acts surprised, of course, but it was really his idea in the first place. Kenny's become sort of a confidant for me as well over the past few months. Late in the evenings, after I'd dropped off Kyle, I'd sometimes go to Kenny's for advice.

He was the one who'd given me the idea to build Kyle an art studio. He'd told me it would seal the deal when I asked him how I could guarantee that he would say yes to moving in with me.

Now, when Kyle gets up to go to the bathroom for a bit, I lean in quickly.

"Kenny," I ask, "What should I do now?"

"Oh, Stan, that's simple," he replies, then seems to gear up for a song. What comes next is something I never expected in a million years. Kyle had told me Kenny was like Chef, but still…

"_You gotta make sweet love to your Kyle,_

_You gotta lay him down by the fire…_"

"Kenny!" I say, bringing him out of it.

"What?" he asks, innocently. "All I was saying was that you, Stan, need to bed Kyle. Seriously." Seeing the bathroom door open, I look between him and Kenny and nod.

"Ok."

-.-

That night, I treat Kyle to a candlelit dinner of…macaroni and cheese. I've survived for these past few months on pasta dishes. A lot of pasta dishes. And toast. I'm an absolutely terrible chef. Maybe Kyle can help me out with that…

After dinner, I take him upstairs. OK, so it's not "down by the fire," but I don't think a first time should be on some throw rug, even if it is in front of the fireplace. Maybe later. It starts out innocently enough, like all our other makeout sessions. Where it differs is when I break off from his mouth and start sucking on his neck, and his ear, and about a dozen other places all over his body that make him moan my name deliriously.

"I want you," I hiss in his ear, eliciting a shudder.

"Take me. I'm all yours." Exactly what I wanted, needed, to hear.

I go slow, which I'm sure he appreciates, and I make it as easy as I can. I'm kissing him all the while, and after the climax, I fall out and am almost ready to just cuddle up to him and go to sleep.

He, apparently, has other plans. Instead of lying down with me, he jumps up, barely has time to throw on some sweatpants, before he's headed into the studio. Confused, I follow him.

"Erm…Kyle?" I ask while he frantically sets up a palette and drags a canvas over to the easel. "What're you doing?"

"Painting," he says. "I've got so much in my head right now…I might be up all night. Paintings, poems…I haven't felt this good in my life!" He attacks the canvas vigorously and, I note, with not a trace of the backgrounds and sadistic designs that have been his trademark previously. I sacrifice my night as well, just watching him go at it. There's me and him in a field of flowers, a bed of roses, in various states of undress. Once he's finished about five paintings with his flourished signature in black paint at the bottom, he heads to a small writing table and picks up a pen and a notebook and starts writing.

_My life, my life_

_Is now complete._

_My soul is whole,_

_My heart replete,_

_With little sonnets,_

_And singing birds,_

_To remind me that_

_He's made me whole._

It's a complete 180 from anything I've read of his before. And he goes through another ten or fifteen before he yawns, sets down the pen, closes the notebook, and lets me carry him to bed.

It's different, yes. But from Kyle, it's the kind of different I think everybody wants to see from him.

-.-

Author's Notes: See what I mean? I don't know whether or not I'll extend this chapter. I think it's fine as it is, really. I mean, I could make it more explicit, but…I dunno. If enough of you reviewers ask me to, who knows what you could see on my dA Thursday?

Anyway…on that note, tell me what you thought of this! Beautiful, caring, and thoughtful, or rushed, rubbish, and total bollocks? Just let me know by taking a minute and pressing the little purple button on your left below this.

El autor.


	13. Chapter 13

Rescue Me-Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: "here!"**

**Summary: Kyle goes to exorcise his demons. Stan talks with Kenny.**

**Author's Notes: **OK, here we go!! Starting to wind everything down now, and this fic will be done in a week, if all goes well! One major plot point will be introduced near the beginning of this chapter that sets up for the denouement. Oh, and the only reason I'm able to get this chapter to you on time is because my computer is quite gay and won't play me an audio file for Spanish. So…here you are, then. This chapter is primarily Kyle's POV.

Reviews:

Lumina Lin: Heh…the sad thing is, where I am right now I CAN go for a walk at midnight without any real consequences…'cept the cops might look at me funny. But who gives a damn about them! Yes, yay happy! ROTFL pretty colors…

Flabz: Maybe, but it would take someone with better authoring skills than me to be able to stretch it out like that. Besides, who doesn't like a nice time jump here and there?

Cammy: Well, mostly. I mean, he's still an artiste, so there's still some emo going on, but the rain clouds have cleared up for the most part.

Unworthy: Heh…yeah, I can see Kyle doing that. I hope he got something out of that :P

EvanNJames: You know, you just gave me an opportunity to do a (mostly) shameless self-plug. Under my profile is a one-shot called "Move Along" that I'm not particularly proud of, but if you want to see more of them as a caring couple…it's a pretty good example.

I'm a little disappointed in the review count for this, I must admit, but I mostly blame it on the seeming rush of new submissions every time I update this…like if I post at midnight, by noon it's already out of the top 10. Ludicrous, I tell you!

This chapter takes place about a month or so after the events of Chapter 12.

-.-

I feel…different. I think I know what it means to be the recipient of a miracle. Like the blind man who was cured by Jesus, and can now see.

My life has righted itself from its downward spiral. Things are looking up. Forgive me, but let me once again indulge in some rather pitiful oldies music…

"I can see clearly now, the rain is gone!" Like a shroud, or a dark veil covering my eyes…all is right with my world in a way that I haven't known since I woke up to Eric Cartman sitting in my room with a knife when I was sixteen.

I truly have everything I want and need in life. Stan has committed himself to me, I've given myself to him in a way that I can give myself to no other. Except for the scars that let me know exactly what happened, and the occasional longing for medication, I could conceivably write this entire experience off as a horrible dream. A seven-year nightmare that I've finally awaken from.

The euphoria is something I can't say I've ever truly experienced. This surpasses even my excitement over sneaking in to see the Terrance and Philip movie when we were nine years old. I feel…giddy, and detached. I feel like I'm floating on a cloud, away from the influence of gravity. It's like the LSD back in San Francisco, only with less swirling vortexes of color.

Everybody has noticed, I think. My students, Stan, the other faculty, Stan, random passers-by, Stan, and even I all see how happy I am. For me, the realization comes from looking at the change in art. I mean, aside from the overall drawing style, you'd be hard pressed to believe that the man who not six months ago was bemoaning his life and painting pictures of his personal hell in garish reds and blacks would now be celebrating his life and painting pictures of himself frolicking with his lover in fields of multi-colored flowers. There's the poetry, too. That's another thing that's reversed course, from talking about life's pain and suffering in a method that comes hilariously close to that of those retarded Goth kids to talking about my skylarkings and using nearly every synonym the thesaurus has listed for happy and even coming up with a few of my own.

This euphoria has even carried over to my "other" project. I'm going back to revise that book of mine. Some editing of the passages written during my days of pain, suffering, and torment – both physical and mental – by shortening some and adding editorial comments and some explanatory paragraphs that lead into some new material about life on the flip-side of the coin, the side I'm now experiencing. Doing things to link long rants about how unfair life is to little pieces about the equity of all things. It's almost like a point-counterpoint written entirely by me.

Something else that's really helped my marked improvement is another success I recently had. I decided to take the sort of point-counterpoint style that my book seems to be taking on and apply it to a collection of my poetry. Pairing up some of the old, dark stuff with some of the newer, happy stuff, that sort of thing. It worked. I received the acceptance letter in the mail last week, along with a first-edition copy.

"_Mr. Broflovski,_

"_We are pleased to inform you that your poetry collection, "Night before the Dawn," has been selected for publication. Enclosed is a contract that we require your signature upon before we can begin printing the book and send you your payment. Also enclosed is a special first edition copy of your book as it will look in stores. If you require any additional copies, call me at the number listed below or include a short note with your contract._

"_Sincerely, J. Thomas Kendall._"

I, of course, had called him immediately and requested an additional five books, and told him I would return the contract as soon as possible.

I had taken it downtown to my father's law office and spent the afternoon going over the various terms and clauses before concluding that it was a very fair contract for a first-time published author. I'd signed it, he'd had his secretary notarize it, and I'd mailed it off the same day.

The books arrived today, and are the reason why I am where I am right now – in my car, driving to the Federal Penitentiary at Florence. Stan's not the only one who got me to where I am today. There's one person who started this whole damn business, and I know that if I'm ever going to truly be well again, I have to go talk to him…Eric Theodore Cartman.

When I arrive at the prison, there is about a half an hour's worth of forms and inspections I have to go through, the last fifteen minutes are spent going over the book with a UV light to make sure it doesn't contain any hidden messages. At last I'm given permission to make my way to the visiting room. Cartman will be shackled at both the hands and the ankles, and will also be secured to the chair, which is bolted to the floor. It's for my safety, apparently, an idea that I find laughable. If Cartman wanted to kill me, he would have actually gone ahead with it all those years ago.

As soon as I walk in the door, he's waiting for me. I smirk as he stares at me, puzzling his tiny little mind to try and figure out who the hell I am and why I'm carrying a thin little book with me. The scrutiny goes on for a good couple minutes before he speaks.

"Okay, Ah give up. Who the hell are you?" he asks, with the same annoying voice I last remember telling me that I was finally going to get what I deserved.

"Well, let's see if I can refresh your memory then, Fatass," I reply non-chalantly. It's not true at all anymore. Cartman is anything but fat. Then again, I guess seven years with nothing to do but lift weights will slim down anybody.

"Kenneh?" he asks, still confused. Oh, all the better. Sighing, I reach for the bottom of my shirt and lift it up slightly to reveal the swastika scar still emblazoned, however faintly, on my abdomen.

"Oh, Kahl!" he says sadistically, "So nice to see you aftah all these years. Have a seat, old friend!"

Even as I do, I can't help but retort, "If you think carving racist symbols into somebody is a sign of friendship, it's no wonder you're shackled to a chair. I can only lament that it's not electric."

"You wound me, Kahl," he says, before noticing the book. "What the hell's that?"

"This is a book of my poetry, Cartman," I tell him. "I figured that I should drop by and thank you, because without you I probably never would have written most of it, probably any of it."

He finds this quite hilarious. His laughter fills the room for a good three minutes, and when he's finally calm enough for words adds in, "Goddamn, Ah always knew you were a pansy, Kahl, but poetry? Seriouslah, poetry!"

"Yes, Fatass, poetry," I shoot back defensively. "I knew it was pointless to come down here and try to forgive you…I should have known that you'd just be the same jackass you always were." Apparently I let something slip, because Cartman's staring at me slack-jawed, barely able to utter his next question.

"Try to…what…me?" I backtrack what I said myself in my head. Oh, that. Well, that kind of was the point of this whole trip.

"Look, Cartman, I'll never say this to a parole board, and deny it if you ever mention it, because I know you're still a sadistic bastard at heart and the second you got out of here you would just high-tail it to my place and try and finish the job, but…I forgive you. I shouldn't hate, even you. Even though you effectively took away nearly eight years of my life, I forgive you," I say, getting up and starting for the door. "The book's autographed. Hang on to it; it'll be worth something someday. I'll try not to take so long before my next visit."

"Wait a minute, Kahl; you're not getting away that easy. I wanna know what prompted this change in behavior. If I didn't know better," Fatass says with a knowing smirk on his face, "I'd say you were starting to respect mah authoritah."

"First off, you don't have any 'authoritah,'" I retort. "And second, though telling you this is automatically doubling the time I'm going to wait before visiting you again, Stan is what caused this 'change in behavior.' Draw your own conclusions. I'll see you again in a few years, Fatass." And with that, I'm out the door and headed for the exit. I've still got a four-hour drive back to South Park ahead of me. I should be able to make it home just in time for dinner. I hope Stan makes something that isn't macaroni and cheese this time…

-.-

_Stan's POV_

"Kenny, I need to talk to you," I said a half an hour ago upon entering his diner. Amicably, he went and poured two cups of coffee and led me to a small booth, not unlike the ones he says he and Kyle used to do something similar before I came back to town and riled everything up.

"Shoot," he said, and I began telling him about my relationship with Kyle, and how it's been great, and how he reacted to what I did the LAST time I listened to Kenny's advice, and how I'd really like some more.

"Stan, my friend," he says, sipping at his coffee, one leg perched on the windowsill. "I'm going to ask you a few questions. These questions will be the basis for my advice, which I shouldn't end up needing to tell you, OK?"

"OK…" I reply, uncertain about the whole thing.

"You love Kyle, correct?" he asks. I nod. Of course I love Kyle. Now that the combined forces of the Fates, Reason, and Kyle himself opened my eyes to everything, I see that Kyle is my soul mate. My other half. The yang to my yin, if you will. The uke to my seme. He's cute, he's tender, he's got passion, he can cook (well, better than I can anyway, which doesn't take much)…in short he's perfect. The perfect fit.

"You can't see your life without Kyle?"

"I HAVE seen my life without Kyle, Kenny," I reply. "We've both seen Kyle's life without me. It's not pretty. It's also something I'm not going to let happen again. He's too good a person to have to deal with shit like that." Kenny salutes me with his coffee cup, before taking a sip and asking his final question.

"What's one thing you can do to prevent you having to live a life without Kyle and Kyle having to live a life without you?" he asks. That's a thinker…we already live together, but living together is just an agreement that can be canceled at any time. Not that I can think of any reason why either of us would want to cancel that agreement, but I still need another way to link Kyle to me in a way that's harder to break…something that would keep me with him forever.

It hits me. Apparently, Kenny can see this, because he gives me another coffee cup salute, gets up, and heads back to the kitchen, while I quickly drain what's left in my own cup and rush home. I've got some plans to make…and a ring to find. There's dinner, for starters…I need some candles, and a checkered tablecloth, and a cookbook, and some food…

Boy, I've forgotten how hard it is to propose to someone.

-.-

Author's Notes: Alright, there's chapter 13, in all its glory! I'm guessing you can think about what's going to happen in chapter 14, which is shaping up to be the longest chapter I've ever written. There's a LOT of stuff that needs to go in there, and that's before the extension that's going on my DA. It's a good thing I'm going to be writing it on a Sunday…

Now! Review this chapter please. Not too much squealing, because I do need to retain my sense of hearing at least for the next two days!

Thanks,

El autor.


	14. Chapter 14

Rescue Me-Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: erm…yeah…not mine**

**Summary: Another Chapter of Happiness. Lots of Happiness…**

**Author's Notes:** Hot diggity! Time to write the Long-Ass Mega Chapter of Doom!! Now…reviews…I don't know if it's a matter of e-mail links not working or just plain forgetfulness…but four reviews for chapter 13? Four? Even if you don't like it, don't be afraid to tell me that. I won't bite…I might e-yell, but I won't bite.

Now to answer those four reviews…

Flabz: Here is the Update! Which, due to Editing Skills on CRACK!, will be available on dA (in the Extended Version) simultaneously with this.

EvanNJames: All I can say is…:D

Unworthy: You're welcome! So much.

PP Bunny: Good to hear it!! Can't wait for more of **A Devil's Hymn**, which you aren't getting NEARLY enough reviews for (yes, that is a hint for the rest of you!).

Chapter will be presented initially from Kyle's POV.

-.-

The sun was setting behind the mountains as I pulled up into the driveway of my and Stan's home. As I got out and headed for the door, the lawn was bathed in an interesting combination of orange flame and black-purple shadow. It would make an interesting painting, perhaps.

Fitting key to lock, I open the door and step inside to find a mostly darkened house. Strange…Stan's SUV's still in the driveway, so he must be home…

"Stan?" I call out, listening to my voice echo. "Where are you?"

"In here!" he shouts from the kitchen, poking his head into the doorway. He's…wearing an apron…

Bemused, I walk into the kitchen and take in the scene. Stan is stirring something in a large pot, there's a small table with two chairs and a checkered tablecloth in the middle of the floor and with the exception of the small light over the stove, the room is lit only by the large red candle that sits next to the rose in a vase on the table.

"…alright, what're you up to?" I ask as he removes some bread from the oven.

"Absolutely nothing!" he insists with mock offense. "Is it wrong to try and make a romantic meal for my boyfriend every once in a while?" I smile, like I do every time he calls me his boyfriend. It makes me happy.

"Well, no," I say, "but you normally just order take out."

"So I wanna put in a little extra effort this time," he replies. "Nothing wrong with that…besides, even I get tired of mac and cheese three or four days a week. I wanna expand my repertory," he adds with a grin and a pout, turning off the stove and displaying what he has made: spaghetti and meatballs. I look at it with a raised eyebrow.

"OK, so it's still pasta, but it's still too cold out to grill steaks!" he said. "Trust me; I know my way around a grill...it's the stovetops that get me vexed."

"Wow, you used an uncommon word, there, Stan. You must really want the sex tonight, huh?" It was a little joke…since Stan was a gym coach; most folks automatically assumed he wasn't too bright. Of course, hanging around me had helped expand his vocabulary, but he was still smarter than his job let on.

"Shut uuuup, Kyle," he whines. "Have a seat…I've got some more stuff planned for us to do tonight." Intrigued, I walk over to the chair he pulls out for me and sit down, allowing him to push me up closer to the table and dollop some spaghetti onto my plate before doing the same to his own and walking off to the refrigerator and bringing out a bottle of red wine. He's really going the extra mile tonight…I wish I knew why.

Popping the top, he pours two glasses and returns to the table, offering me one, which I accept. Setting the other glass down at his table setting, he removes and hangs up the apron before returning to the table and sitting down.

"So, where were you all day?" he asked, digging in with his fork. "I got lonely, and there weren't any good games on."

"Well, I figured there was something I needed to do if I was ever going to really get over those last eight years. So I took one of those books we got this morning and went down to the Federal Pen at Florence," I say. It takes him a while, and I know he's asking himself "_Who do we know that's in Federal Prison?_" But he finally catches on.

"You went to see _CARTMAN_!?!" he asks incredulously. "Fatass, anti-Semitic, almost-killed-you-eight-years-ago Cartman?"

"The very same," I reply. "And he's not really that fat anymore, Stan. Matter of fact, he could probably snap you in two, and me in four. Anyway, I figured if I was going to be able to fully heal those wounds, I needed to confront the root of the problem. So, I went down, we had a quick chat, I forgave him and that was that."

"You forgave him? Kyle, he gave you scars that still make you a little hesitant every time I try to take off your shirt!"

"Relax. It was more of an absolvation than a forgiving. Basically means that it's one less sin he'll have hanging over his head when he dies. Not that it matters, he's still going to Hell," I say. Stan looks confused.

"More an absolvation than a forgiving? What?" he asks.

"Means he doesn't have to worry about that particular sin of his anymore. I didn't forgive him, because that would mean when he's up for parole he could get it, and the first thing he would do is come here and try to finish the job. No, he's going to rot in prison, but we can both get on with our lives now," I say. "Those eight years are over and done with, and I just want to look forward to the next eight, and all the eight years after that." I reach out and give his hand a squeeze, which brings a shared smile to our faces, before returning to my pasta. Spaghetti tastes like crap cold.

The rest of the meal passes in silence. We do the dishes together, I wash and Stan dries, and he's getting kind of antsy. _Something_ is up, but I can't for the life of me guess what, and I know he won't tell me.

Once we get everything put away and back to normal, I have some more questions.

"You said this wasn't the only thing you had planned for tonight?" I ask.

"Yep!" he says, quite chipper.

"OK, then…what're we doing now?"

"I thought you'd never ask. Come on!" He grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs, but we pass by our bedroom and head for…my studio? What's he want to do in there?

Stepping inside, I find a fresh canvas sitting upon my easel.

"I want you to paint me!" he announces. "I've already got a pose in mind, so go get your stuff," he says, turning me around and giving me a short push. My mind goes over the colors and things I'll need. First I'll need to get an outline of him, so…charcoal pencil. He's wearing a white tuxedo shirt and black dress pants…I'll need a peach hue for the skin tones, blue for the eyes, red for the lips…yellow for his class ring.

Getting all the necessary colors together on a palette, I select an ultra-fine brush for details, a fine brush for some of the smaller features, and a wide brush for doing the pants, and turn around to face the canvas.

I can clearly see Stan in his pose. He's…down on one knee, and he's holding out something…a box…and it's got a DIAMOND FUCKING ENGAGEMENT RING IN IT!!!

"OH MY GOD!!!" I yell in a squealing voice that makes me sound, once again, too girly for description. "Are you fucking SERIOUS!?! Stan??"

He's grinning like a maniac. "Will you, Kyle James Broflovski, marry me?"

You devious, devious son of a bitch! I can only nod with delight while reaching for the charcoal pencil and, keeping an eye on him, quickly sketch out the way he's positioned, getting an outline of his body before I can't contain myself anymore.

Dropping the pencil to the ground, I rush him and pin him to the ground, attacking him with kisses.

"You have made me the happiest man ever!" I say. "You can have all the sex you want after this, I don't care!" This brings a glint to his eye as he slides the ring over my finger and produces its counterpart from his other pocket and hands it to me to return the favor.

"I love you so much," he says in a husky little half-whisper.

"I love you too," I reply. "Now…let's get you re-arranged so I can do this right. Briefly slipping the ring off my finger and returning it to the open box, I return Stan to the way he was in the outline and pick up the pencil again to get started on the details. This painting will hang over our fireplace for as long as I can keep it there.

-.-

Four hours later, we're lying in bed, exhausted. Stan was a little stiff from staying in that pose for three hours, but he limbered back up soon enough when I started dragging him towards the bedroom.

"When are we going to have the wedding?" I ask absentmindedly, toying with the ring on my finger. It's absolutely exquisite, even better than my mother's wedding ring.

"I was kind of thinking September 22nd," he replies. That seems a rather odd date for something like a wedding, but then my mind prompts me with the reason. September 22nd is the date we got together, the day he broke up with Wendy for me.

"You romantic bastard," I whisper. "That's, what…seven months away?" I get a confirming nod. "Think we can pull it off in that amount of time?"

"We've got seven months," he says. "What more do we need to do than find a church, preacher, reception hall, and tickets to Hawaii on Travelocity?" I laugh aloud.

"Don't tell me that you've got a boner for the Roaming Gnome."

"Who doesn't? That guy is all kinds of awesome! Better than some fat, washed-up actor who won't admit to wearing a hairpiece," Stan replies with a chuckle.

"Hey! Don't call Captain Kirk washed-up!" I say. "He's not washed-up; he's just a media-whore!"

"The hell do you mean he's not washed-up?" Stan asks. "He's in a show on _ABC_, for fuck's sake!"

"A show on ABC that's won four Emmys, a Golden Globe, and a Peabody!" I insist. "Hell, Shatner himself won an Emmy and the Golden Globe."

"Whatever, Kyle," Stan says. "I'd still rather watch ESPN at 9 on Tuesdays."

"No you wouldn't," I reply devilishly. "You'd rather _do_ ME at 9 on Tuesdays."

"You've got a point there," he admits, turning to face me again. "Can I do you at 10:30 on Saturday?"

"Hey, I said you could have all the sex you wanted tonight, go ahead." Smiling, he leans in for a kiss while his hands explore downwards, and I start thinking about who we'll invite to the wedding.

-.-

_Stan's POV_

Apparently seven months flew by quicker than I thought it would. It seems like only a few weeks ago that I was first making love to Kyle, and now, here we are, at the altar of the South Park church in the presence of a rabbi.

These past seven months have been full of compromise. This is merely an example of them. Since it's on my religion's "turf," so to speak, Kyle insisted that the ceremony itself be a Jewish wedding, presided over by a rabbi. We also came to an agreement on the number of people we would invite, who would make up that number, who would be in whose wedding party…

Kenny is Kyle's best man. Because we both couldn't have the same best man (well, we could have, but Kenny is deathly afraid of, and refused to go anywhere near, Terrance Mephesto), Coach Jacobs is mine. We're both wearing matching tuxedoes, with roses in the lapel. Kyle's hair has lost the black streaking and is back to its normal, loveable, Jewfro state.

Our parents are seated next to each other in the front row. It had been very interesting to invite them to our wedding, and because Kyle had insisted that it was just too impersonal to send your parents an invitation through the mail, we'd had them over for dinner in April…

_Flashback_

"_Oh, buhbie, it's so nice to see you looking clean and well-kept," Sheila Broflovski said as Kyle answered the door. Gerald merely gave him a once over and a father-son man-hug before stepping past him and following his wife, whom I was leading into the dining room, which had been seated with four extra places than usual. My parents were already there, and looked just as confused as Kyle's._

_My mother had commented critically on some of the paintings that adorned the walls, apparently not realizing until he told her that they were Kyle's. My father had concentrated himself on the beer that had been placed in his hands almost immediately upon his arrival. It was the only way he would feel comfortable, and the drunker he was, for us, the better._

"_Randy, Sharon, so nice to see you!" Sheila said upon entering the dining room, giving my mother a hug, while Gerald had merely nodded. He didn't talk much, Kyle's dad. I wondered if that was because he had been cowed so well by Sheila._

_For dinner we had kosher steak, potato salad, and corn-on-the-cob. I'd gone out and purchased a special grill just for the occasion, and would keep it in the garage with a large label differentiating it from my regular grill. Kyle had spent the afternoon shucking corn and making potato salad, ironically enough following his mother's recipe with a few "additions." Everyone loved Sheila Broflovski's potato salad, even if they weren't too thrilled about Sheila Broflovski._

_We'd done a good job of hiding our rings until the time was right. We sat at opposite ends of the table to throw off as much suspicion as possible, and had acted in no way overly couple-y._

_It wasn't until after dessert (apple pie) that we brought everyone into the living room for coffee._

"_Alright, boys, what's this all about?" my father finally asked, having consumed four beers over dinner, three of those before we'd even started eating. It would have been him, of course. The situation was far too awkward for any sober person, even Sheila, to break it open._

_Looking at Kyle, we both moved in front of the TV (which elicited a groan from my father, seeing as how we were in the way of the Rockies game) and reached for our ring fingers, turning the items that adorned them face up, so that our parents could see the engagement rings._

"_We're getting married!" Kyle said, very happily. I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a kiss on the top of his head._

_The adults just looked at each other, nervously, until Sheila cleared her throat and rose to break the ice._

"_Kyle, honey, come here and let me see that ring!" A little hesitantly my lover and fiancée had stepped forward and allowed his mother to examine it. My mother followed suit, and both gasped when they saw it up close._

"_Kyle, that's beautiful, buhbie!" his mother exclaimed. "Why, the diamond in it is even larger than the one in my wedding band!" This last part was uttered with a disapproving glance at Gerald, who quickly glared at me before looking at Sheila apologetically and promising to add to her ring as soon as possible._

"_It's a carat and a half," I chimed in helpfully._

"_Stanley, honey, how did you afford this?" my mother asked._

"_Well, I still have some of the money from when I was coaching at Colorado…which paid about three times what I'm getting here. It was only about 1500," I said with a shrug, leaning against the TV._

"_Well, when's the date?" Sheila asked. I should have known…our dads were probably fuming, but allowed their wives to fuss over everything like women were known for._

"_September 22nd," Kyle supplied. "It'll be our one-year anniversary."_

"_You mean you've been dating Stanley for seven months and never told us?" my dad asked. Kyle shrugged and looked at me._

"_Yeah. It never really came up when I talked with you guys, so…here you go," I replied._

"_Well, we're invited, of course, aren't we?" Sheila asked. We both nodded._

"_That's actually what this was all for," I said. "Kyle insisted we do something a little more personal than simply sending you a card in the mail." I smirked, Kyle grinned, the mothers laughed and our fathers simply shrugged. Apparently they didn't care too much that their sons were homosexuals; they'd gotten a free steak dinner out of the deal, so they weren't going to complain. Maybe if we didn't do it every so often they would, but…it can't hurt to have good relations with your in-laws, can it?_

"_So…waitaminute," my father said, something apparently hitting him. "Who's changing names here?"_

"_Actually, Dad, neither of us will be. We both like the last names we already have, and we agree that hyphenation is totally lame, so…we'll still be Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski, we'll just be married too. We can do that, right?" I asked, looking at Gerald, who nodded._

"_Hollywood people do it all the time. It's allowed."_

"_What about children? You're going to adopt, right? What about last names for them?"_

"_Well, yeah, when the time comes, sure we'll adopt. We haven't really thought about it, but I guess it depends on the first names we give them," Kyle said. "If one of the names sounds better with Marsh, we'll give him or her that one and the same if it sounds better with Broflovski." Which doesn't sound like too bad of an idea, come to think of it._

"_Well boys, we'll keep in touch. Which one of you is handling most of the wedding preparations?" my mother asked._

"_Technically it's me, because I have more spare time, what with football season over and everything, but mainly I'm just calling who Kyle tells me to call and saying what he tells me to say," I said. "Call him if you want input." Kyle shoots me a look, but I shrug._

"_Well, then, boys, thank you very much for the dinner, and congratulations to the both of you. We'll talk to you later," Sheila said. This was a good wrapping up point, so we let our parents rise, get their jackets, and head out._

"_That didn't go too badly," I said, coming up and hugging Kyle from behind._

"_Yeah, but this means more work for you," he replied, snuggling into me._

"_How do you figure?"_

"_With the entrance of our moms into the planning of this thing, you're going to have twice as much stuff to look into. Come on, we're guys. Half is a conservative estimation of the things we've neglected to think about for this," he said. He had a point._

"_Oh well. Summer's coming up soon anyway, then we'll both have all the time we need."_

_End Flashback_

Actually, our mothers were who had helped us come up with the "Jewish ceremony in the Catholic church" compromise.

Speaking of which…I really should have been paying attention. The rabbi is looking at me, holding the end of a rather long piece of paper, which is the _ketubah_ or marriage contract that, as I understand it, basically just sets the terms for our marriage, what I can and must do, what Kyle can and must do, and what both of us cannot do. Apparently, he has finished reading it, and it is time for me to instigate the next step.

Turning to Coach Jacobs, who receives it from somebody else's kid, I get the wedding ring I picked out and had engraved for Kyle.

Remembering my line, I hold it up and say, "You are consecrated to me, through this ring, according to the religion of Moses and Israel." I then place it on his finger. He then turns to Kenny, who receives it from yet another kid, and takes the ring he chose for me, and holds it up.

"_Ani l'dodi v'dodi Li,_" he recites in Hebrew, slipping it onto my finger. I smile, remembering when he told me what that meant. "I am for my beloved, and my beloved is for me." The only thing missing in there is "perfect."

The rabbi then extends the thing I've been looking forward to the most – the glass of wine. There is just enough in there for one sip from me and one sip from Kyle. Then, the rabbi wraps the glass in a cloth, and we both stomp upon it with our feet, shattering it.

Then the rabbi reverts to the traditional line, in order to civilly consecrate the marriage, of "By the power vested in me by the State of Colorado, I know pronounce you married." I lean in and give Kyle a kiss as we take each other's hand and make our way out of the church, to be confronted by a line of SPHS students and faculty: namely my football team and Kyle's senior art students, who shower us with rice, and bubbles, and what appear to be condoms. I make a mental note to check the dispenser in the locker room when I return from my honeymoon.

We make our way to the reception hall where we do the old hat of feeding each other the first slice of cake. It's a fucking beautiful cake, three tiers of white goodness with two groom figures sitting atop. Craning my neck, I get a good look at them.

"They fucked up your ass!" I relate to Kyle. "I think they added ten pounds." He cracks up, and makes a snide comment about my figure's hair before we turn our attention to the gift table.

Naturally, we didn't expect all of our roughly 300 guests to purchase us something…and it appears from looking at the tags that a lot of people went in together to purchase things. There is one tag that stands out as an individual gift though…from Kenny.

I almost hesitate before opening, before Kenny waggles his eyebrows at me, enticing my curiosity, and Kyle gives me a puppy dog look, removing my hesitancy. We tear open the wrapping paper, and…there sits a large collection of oddly shaped and colored paintbrushes. I say oddly-shaped because, even though they have bristles attached at the end…the shafts look like…

"KENNY!!!" we shout. Only he would be audacious enough to give us paintbrush dildoes… He rolls on the floor laughing as Kyle blushes furiously and mutters about where he intends to put the lot of them…

The only other really large present that we note, and that's from the football team. Fearing the worst, I open it and confirm my suspicions…a box of customized condoms, with a picture of the South Park mascot on the head, and a tag on the box that says "Property of Coach Arse Rammer."

Passing them off to Kyle, I glare at them.

"You better enjoy this week; because I'm gonna make your lives hell when I get back. And just for that, none of you are getting lei'd when we get back from Hawaii!" I tell them, which only makes them crack up. They know what I'm talking about, but choose to see only the dirty part of it. Teenagers…

The rest of the gifts are quite decent – china and crystal from our parents, silverware from some other relatives, a clock from the Faculty Senate, a photo album from a few of Kyle's cousins…and an autographed football from the University of Colorado Buffaloes football team, the present of a friend from the coaching staff there. Nothing else really embarrassing, thankfully.

Then comes the trip to Hawaii. The flight is dreadfully long, with a crappy movie and a crappier meal. But once we arrive…once we arrive, everything starts looking up. A taxi is easily commandeered once we retrieve our luggage, the trip to the resort is quick, and, upon checking in, we learn that we have an exclusive condo overlooking the beach, as part of our honeymoon package. The lady checking us in appears confused as to the whereabouts of my bride when she sees Kyle standing next to me. It takes a while for her to figure out that HE's my "bride," and when she does she merely hands me the key with a surprised squeak.

Grinning, Kyle and I take our luggage and head down along the path to our "exclusive condo," which isn't too bad from the outside…it's probably about 900 square feet, all told, more wide than long.

Kyle is insanely amused when I insist that he remain put while I unlock the door and unceremoniously toss all our luggage into the living room area without stepping foot in the place myself, then return out to him.

"Ready my love?" I ask, pumping out my chest with an air of gallantry. "I shall carry thee across the threshold, and then shall proceed to make passionate love to thee inside our bedroom!"

"Well, if thou asketh so nicely," he deadpans, allowing himself to be swooped off his feet into my arms. Slowly, I walk into the condo, taking care not to bang Kyle's head on the door.

"You gonna carry me all the way to the bed?" he asks.

"Yeah, that's the plan," I reply. "Why? Worried I'm gonna drop you? You're a lot lighter than you think, Kyle."

"Heh," he says, looking over my shoulder as I kick the front door shut. "Third door on your left, I think."

Nodding, I carry him over to it and let him reach down and open it. He's correct about it being the bedroom, and I walk over and lay him down on the bed with a kiss. We're wearing somewhat more casual clothes – floral print shirts and khaki shorts, with flip-flops. Makes it a lot easier to undress him, but I do it as slowly as I can anyway, kissing each inch of newly exposed flesh and making him squirm with anticipation as I finally get the shirt off. When I move up to kiss him again, he takes the opportunity to hastily unbutton and remove my shirt, leaving us both half-naked, kissing, and reaching for each other's buttons and zippers.

I look down at Kyle, who's smiling. He's just as happy as he was the first time we kissed, the first time we made love…and it makes me happy to know that I make him happy.

"God I love you," he says as I enter him a short time later, before all rational thought is purged from both of our minds.

When my climax overtakes me, my convulsions inside his body, set off a simultaneous chain reaction in him, leading to his own climax.

"I love you too," I say, and as we both lay back on the bed, I can't help think that I've never felt more complete in my life, and I know without looking that he feels exactly the same.

-.-

Author's Notes: OK…now, if you want the somewhat longer and better-edited version of this, kindly follow the link in my profile to my deviantART account. It should be posted there, but you'll need a dA account because it will be marked with the "mature-content" filter.

The final chapter/epilogue of sorts will be up Thursday! This has been quite a ride, and I'd like to thank all of you that have stayed with me for all of it!

El autor


	15. Chapter 15

Rescue Me-Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: Last time you have to see it…**

**Summary: Just a few loose ends to tie up and a few more to introduce…**

**Author's Notes: **Well…this is the end of RM. It's gone on for about a month and a half, and I'm proud to say that I consider it one of my best works. Due to influences and some conversations with a couple of you, I have decided to continue working in this little universe with…the Sequel to Rescue Me (title pending). The necessary cogs for this story will be introduced in this chapter. Thank you so much for reading!!

Reviews: sparse again :(

Flabz (on the dA version of ch.14 :)): Yeah, I talked with you about it on MSN and DA, so I think I've thanked you plenty, but…thanks for all the encouragement and giving me something nice to wake up to on Mondays and Fridays XD.

PP. Bunny: Heh, thanks for the stroke of inspiration. I intend to pick it up and run a rather long distance with it:P 

Unworthy: Don't worry, this chapter's happy too!!

Lilchicky004 (ch12): It'd better be good enough!

Lilchicky004 (ch13):P Just :P

Lilchicky004 (ch14): Heh, I tried waiting for you, but I'm real impatient…Thank you very very much!

-.-

_To my readers:_

_Twenty years ago, when I made the final revisions to the first edition of this book and submitted it for publication, I never dreamed it would be this successful. Within two weeks of the release, I had embarked on a signing tour, appeared on Oprah, The Daily Show, the morning news shows, and a few radio shows. For all this, and for helping me out with my life and the book, my husband was by my side. _

_About a year ago, when the publishing company asked me if I would be interested in re-visiting this book and perhaps adding some material, he was the one who encouraged me to take the extra step, and even contributed some material of his own. The co-author credit he receives is the least I could do. I love you, Stan!_

_Some of what you will be reading near the end of this new edition talks about our lives over the past twenty years. Soon after this book became a hit, we took the plunge and started the adoption process. Fifteen years ago, we ended up with two beautiful twin boys: Ryan Marsh and David Broflovski. Ryan looks uncannily like his father, but he takes after me in personality. David looks quite similar to me, and has Stan's personality. It can be difficult at times to keep them separate. The twins just celebrated their sixteenth birthdays, and as such we don't see them much anymore._

_We all still live in South Park, and Stan and I both still hold the same jobs we did when all of this first started. The only difference is the amount of money we're making. Stan is a wonderful coach, and once all the hubbub about his sexuality died down, and he was allowed to return his full attention to the field, South Park started on a dominant streak. Our football team didn't lose a game for six years, and accumulated six state titles along the way. I've lost track of the amount of times he's been approached for head coaching jobs on the collegiate level, but he always turns them down. As crazy as it sounds, we love our home in this quiet, Podunk, jerkwater, green-horn, white-trash, whistle-stop, peckerwood mountain town. It's where we spent our youth, it's where we returned to as adults, and it's the only place we'd ever live._

_After Stan and I got the twins to start sleeping normally, I finally caved in to the pressure on my side to come around and start giving lectures at colleges on either my poetry or my book, or both in some cases. I typically only go to ten of these per year, but I might have to increase that number based on the reception this re-release receives. What has really astounded me was the reception it received among both the student population at these schools, and among the faculty. Any time I attend one of these lectures, I always spend close to three hours after the conclusion of the actual event discussing parts of it with professors and students alike._

_I get a lot of people who say that reading my book, whether on assignment or on recommendation, inspired them. I always respond by asking them in what way they were inspired. Eight times out of ten I receive a response relating to a friend they have, or doing nice things for people in general. The other twenty percent of the time, though, is what really thrills me, when a young man in his early twenties reveals to me a painting that is nearly always on par with the best things I've ever created and sometimes surpass me. I have a place for each of these works in my home, and a museum-worthy label about the artist and where he (or sometimes she) is from._

_The real point of this little introduction, however, is not to bombard you with little anecdotes about how this book has been received. If you want that, you can look at the back cover, or wherever the blurbs end up. No, this section is supposed to be the thanks. And for that, I have a few very special people in mind:_

_To Karen: Your input on the various portions of the first edition were very helpful in revising it for this re-release. I think you'll find that all the mistakes you point out have been corrected!_

_To Claire: The conversations had a tendency to digress, often painfully, but you've been great in helping me think of additional things to talk about in here when I hit a stumbling block._

_To Rachel: Always there with a friendly comment! Your encouragement helped a great deal. Perhaps more than you know…_

_To Ren: Always willing to leave a positive comment. You give me more props than I really deserve, I do not kid you._

_And to Zak: You have an unhealthy obsession with math. I just wanted to put that out there, you know I despise it and I know you love it. You should write a book of your own, you've got subject matter and skill a plenty! Go for it!_

_For those of you who know me primarily from my poetry (I've published five volumes) and are picking this up out of pure curiosity, I would like to let you in on this: The reasoning behind my pre-2010 work is all in here. You might even see a few things that you recognize. Just a hint._

_For the rest of you…there are some small changes to the opening chapters, but nothing you'd really notice unless you drag out a copy of the first edition and set aside several hours to locating them. Pretty much all the new stuff is in the back, unless it related to themes presented earlier._

_Thank you all for reading, and I'll catch you on the flip side!_

_Kyle Broflovski_

_1 March, 2027_

_South Park, CO_

-.-

I rub my eyes in satisfaction as I save the new file "New Introduction" to the folder "Darkness to Light: My Rescue." It's a Thursday evening, the twins are off…somewhere, they haven't been home since school let out that. I figured that now was the best time to put the finishing touches on the second edition, which really merely amounted to writing this new introduction.

"You done, Ky?" Stan asks from the doorway. He's probably got a coffee mug in his hand, something I confirm when I turn around to smile at him. There are worse things he could be drinking, but he's gotten almost as bad as Tweek with the coffee.

"Yep," I say with a grin. "I'll USB the files to school tomorrow and print them off there, then send it in after classes."

"This mean we get to go tour the world again?" he asks, coming over and hugging me from behind while he scrolls up to read what I wrote.

"Well, you HAVE been talking about taking a second honeymoon," I reply in a somewhat lecherous tone, then shrug. "I dunno. I suppose they'll let me know if they want to do another promo tour. Do you think we could leave the twins home alone for two weeks or so?"

"God no," he says. "We'll ship 'em off to your parents or something. Maybe they can stay with Kenny and his family."

"Bad idea," I remind him. "Remember, David's obsessing over Kenny's daughter?"

"Oh yeah…your parents it is, then," he says. "That oughta put some responsibility into them. If they know we'll just make them spend time with your mom, they'll snap into shape quicker than a Marine called to attention." I know there's a smirk behind those words. Stan actually gets along quite well with my parents, and I with his.

"Well, they're not in the house now," I suggest, and when he turns his gaze from the screen to look down at my face, I give him a waggle of the eyebrows.

"You're such an exhibitionist," he says, and this time I can see the smirk.

"Hey, I never see you objecting."

"Who would turn you down? I'm just saying, the twins usually pick very inopportune times to come home," Stan says, leaning in for a kiss, which I happily provide.

"They know what sex is, Stan. I bet they're wondering why we DON'T do it more often," I say, and he scrunches up his face in disgust.

"Ew, Kyle. I don't want my kids thinking about my sex life, thank you very much."

"Yeah, well, I'm getting mine right now, kids or no kids," I say, pouncing on him and pinning him to the wall, just as the front door loudly opens and I hear David shout out.

"Dad? Pops? Either of you here?" Stan moves towards the door. I stop him, because David's talking again.

"If you're screwing, just make a loud noise and me and Ryan'll go out for a while more!" Grinning at Stan's horrified look, I kick the door and make a loud thump.

"See you later!" David shouts, and there is a pause before the front door shuts again, and I turn to face Stan.

"Checkmate," I say. "Now come on, let's go to bed."

_**FIN!!**_

-.-

Author's Notes: Well, that's it!! I won't be releasing the sequel until after Spring Break (which lasts from Mar. 9-18), but I will go through the first few chapters and make corrections to things like tense and such and re-post them.

Let me know what you thought of it! The review button is below, and my PM link and e-mail address are in my profile! Also, if you were a frequent reviewer and I didn't mention you in Kyle's thanks section, send me a PM or an e-mail with your real name (I only need the first), and I'll put you in!

Thanks so much again!

Phoenix II

1 March 2007

Bored in a dorm room


End file.
